


Until The Day I Die

by Ravager_Zero



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death (Elsa), F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Injury Recovery, Love, POV First Person, Past Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Practical, Recovery, Stealth Crossover, Told Tale, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 105,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravager_Zero/pseuds/Ravager_Zero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. Anna reminisces about the love of her life; the good times and the bad. This is the story of how they met, how they lived, and how eventually Anna was forced to move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reminiscence

I'm sitting on the couch, hair falling over my face—well, I'm lying on the couch actually, using the armrest like a pillow. It's Elsa's couch, and it's actually kinda comfortable like this. I'm only half watching her. We're fighting, and the words are getting heated, but I can't seem to make myself move this time. She looks beautiful. She always did. Sharp featured, some might say. Not me. She has a kind face, but it's always been a bit gaunt. Like she could never put on weight. That's what the fight's about. I'm not really paying attention—she's wearing a low cut top, and it's effectively distracting. To anyone she might walk past. But we're at home, in the front hall. It's the loudest argument we ever had. It's when I learned the truth.

"Elsa!" I shouted. "Why do you keep shutting me out?"

I can see the hurt on her face. I haven't just hit a nerve. It's like she just fell apart on the inside and her body is simply a shell holding her shape. She strides closer, I always think she's going to slap me or something. I forget often that she's not the violent type—I spent too long being dominated and abused by Hans. It's not a memory I dwell on. Elsa sags against me; she's heavy, and trying to hold her up actually takes some strength. Good thing I've always been the physical one. But it's more than that, the way she seems to be falling apart. I ask that question; I've heard it so many times, but I'm still amazed I said it that way.

"What are you so afraid of?"

And when she whispers in my ear, we're suddenly both on the floor, spent. We don't fight anymore. There's no use. I'm stubborn and she's right. She could be stubborn too, but nothing like me. She whispered in my ear, and those words echo through every day we spent together.

"Dying. Anna… I–I never wanted to hurt you."

It was a hell of a shock, figuring it out. Why she was so thin, how easily she would bruise, those weekly visits to the doctor. We'd only been going out two months then. She hadn't known at first. Hadn't really warmed to me either. That, however, may have been because I hit her with my motorbike. I broke her leg so badly it needed steel pins to put it back together. She was afraid she'd never dance again. But she did, waltzing slowly one night with me after her physiotherapist told her she could put some weight on her legs if she was careful not to overdo it. It was the most romantic dance we ever shared back then. At least, upright.

I visited her in hospital every day that I could. She couldn't stand me at first, but she didn't call out harassment or anything either. I think she might have seen the marks Hans was leaving on my skin. Then she saw me with a broken nose, and a bandage over my wrist. She didn't see all the bruises on my chest, or the cracked ribs, or the two-inch puncture wound beneath my breasts. She hadn't seen me for a week, and she was starting to get worried—I hadn't even given her my number, she'd been so frosty towards me.

But we warmed to each other. I wandered around like the walking wounded I was. Hans had pushed me too far, and I'd nearly done something unforgivable. The cops got involved, and now Hans is stuck behind bars for at least five-to-ten. When Elsa learned about that she told me that if he ever laid a hand on me again, she would personally castrate him and feed him his testicles. I laughed until I saw that look on her face. She was furious, and it was terrifying. I had no idea how she could be that scary one moment, then start asking me about my day the next.

We fought between then and now, of course; all couples do. We just didn't let it come between us; until I found out she'd always been hiding something from me. That fight, in the hall. It was our worst, but it set the tone for our new relationship. We made the most of what time we did have. I dropped down to part time to help Elsa around the house. It was hard sometimes, watching her coming home from treatments. Watching the pain wracking her body. Throwing up afterwards, for days. I think the worst part was when she started losing her hair. We both wept over that. Beautiful platinum tresses, and when the morning sun hit them right they turned into liquid gold across our sheets.

The argument's still going. We're still on the floor. I know what's coming, but it still hits me like a runaway freight train. Everything made sense. Why she kept pushing me away, too. She didn't realize how worthy she was of love and affection, despite all she'd done; all she'd suffered through. Three little words, that even now, reduced me to tears. Five words. A ton of bricks to go with that freight train. I said I was devastated when I told Kristoff about it—I just had to tell _someone_. That word just didn't do how I felt justice. The deepest, darkest, blackest pit, devoid of all hope. That's where I went. Until I realized an amazing quote from that interminably long movie about rings that make people invisible and can control the world—I simply couldn't sit still though it long enough to understand it. Anyway, that quote: "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

Suddenly Elsa's words weren't quite so scary. "I have cancer. It's incurable."

The lead weight was still there, and the tears never stopped, but I had already decided what I would do with the time that was given to me. I would help Elsa _live_ ; for however long she had left. We did… everything. She didn't bother with a bucket list. She started small, experiencing life through my eyes. She loved my bike—she was never scared of it, she just didn't know how to ride, but I was okay with that. Not everyone is born to be a biker.

Now the fight is over, and the floor turned into the wall, so it looks like we're defying gravity. A slim hand, with long, slender fingers reaches out across my field of view.

"Anna, why were you recording us?"

"I had a surprise for you. I wanted to see your face when I—"

The screen goes black. I forgot what my big surprise was. I just remember we found it somewhere in the attic three days later, after I'd had some time to recover from hearing that news. I remember another discussion we had. I said I would love Elsa to the end of time. She asked me why, gave some silly reasons why immortality would really, really suck. Especially if you had to watch everyone you ever loved slowly dying. She said it wouldn't work, you'd have to become some kind of hermit. I countered that you would have been richer for having known and loved all these people. Wouldn't the love of an immortal have been stronger, knowing they would always lose that which they loved most?

Elsa began weeping when I said that, and I suddenly knew we hadn't been talking about immortality, or loving people until the end of time—romantic as it sounded. We had been talking about _us_. Elsa saw herself as the mortal; saw me as the immortal. My memories of our time together are still my most treasured possessions. I watch this video because it brings them all back. We didn't record much—we were too busy experiencing it. But this one, above all the others, was where we really knew we loved each other. Because I asked that question, and she told me the truth. No matter how much the truth had hurt, it had opened our hearts. I knew I could never love another person as much as I loved her, but I would try. I would be richer for the experience.

I thumbed the TV off with the remote. I think I was crying. Probably. Every year I do this to remind me of who I lost—of who the world lost. And on this little video, forever perfect, ageless, timeless, and beautiful, the love of my life was preserved. I wondered then, if perhaps she was the immortal one. Any time I wanted I could watch one of our few videos; see her face, her smile, the way she would brush my hair from my eyes going for a kiss. Her laugh, so rich and playful. Her voice, like ice, or silk, or husky having just awoken. I recorded some of the bad times too—I had to, because even then she was still beautiful to me, and I had to make her see it. In her darkest days—in her final hours—I gave her hope. She left the world more loved than she'll ever know. I can't keep it in anymore, and the tears flow freely.

"Mommy… are you okay?" Joan was home from school. It's hard to believe I forgot how late it was. Or did I? Maybe I just lost track of time. It always happens on this day. But I have to reassure my daughter. I find I'm doing it more and more—I think I might need help. Maybe life is just getting rougher at school. I'll talk to Kristoff later. He can help me. But not right now.

"Hello Joan. I–I'm not okay," I think there might have been sniffling. Joan handed me the tissues. "You remember aunty Elsa?"

"I'm so sorry mommy, I forgot today was her birthday. Can I go make her a card?"

I can't speak anymore, so I just nod. It's getting harder. I got the flowers in the morning. White crocuses, her favourite. The rest of the day passes in a blur. Kristoff comes home with his traditional gift; a snowglobe of a city we never got to visit. Just before dinner we go to the cemetery. To the crypt. My life savings went into that, to make sure she got a more than proper burial. I'm the only one with a key. Kristoff borrowed it yesterday to clean. We're there before I know it.

Those words I said—that I would love Elsa until the end of time—they were true. I love Kristoff, but it's not the same as what I shared with Elsa. Nothing is. But he's my rock now, and I need him more than I care to admit. He knows it though, and I appreciate that he doesn't bring it up on days like this. Elsa's birthday is sacrosanct. We all place our offerings and light a votive candle for the love of my life. Then everyone else leaves, waiting quietly outside. Tears streaming down my face, I say the words, and hope I can be strong enough to do this again next year, and the next, and the next, until the day I die. Because I will love her until the end of my days.

"I love you Elsa. Always," my throat clenches, and I have to choke out the next few words. I have to accept that she's gone, and I only have those memories of her now. I have to try and move on, even though I know I never will. I have to try. For my family. Before I do something… bad. So I say the words that hurt so much every time I think I can never say them again. "Sleep now, in peace, my sweet princess. I miss you."

One word, one more word, and I can leave, but it's like a weight in my stomach. Just saying it isn't any kind of relief. But I have to. Just like I have to turn around, and leave her in peace for another year. It takes me nine minutes before I can say that last word. Before I can even think about starting to move on. But I can say it this time. I just don't know how many more I have left in me.

"Goodbye."


	2. Crash

Joan has her eyes. That piercing, crystalline blue. She's our daughter—all three of us, even if one of us dead now. Elsa… losing you was the hardest thing in my life. It still is. I doubt anything will compare to what we had, but Kristoff has always been understanding and supportive. And yes, sometimes we 'do it', you great prude. But us, you and me, we made love. There's an indefinable difference there, and somehow I've never felt for Kristoff what I felt for you. Sixteen years, and yes, we have passion, but that great spark, it's just not as strong. I think I might be rambling though, because I started talking about Joan, and now I'm talking about Kristoff.

Okay, take two. Joan has her eyes. Elsa's eyes. It makes sense, because Elsa provided the donor egg. Kristoff, uh, helped. I provided a womb in which to grow our daughter of three parents. But only after—because Elsa was smart enough to know that I wouldn't be strong enough to do it until after she was gone. That I wouldn't want to. Elsa will never get to see her daughter, but at least Joan can see her, in the pictures around the house, in the videos we made, in my occasional, longing writings. Joan's fifteen, she's a smart kid, really bright, like you were Elsa. She's not a dancer though, she's a fighter—I mean, an actual, proper fighter, err, fencer. Historical, she keeps telling me. I've watched her, and it's so fluid and graceful I can't help but see you there sometimes, waving that longsword around. You'd be proud of her, I'm sure of it. My strength, your grace, Kristoff's wit—well, maybe not so proud of that part.

She's started asking about you, Elsa. Properly. She's always known I cared. She knows we loved each other, and that we were involved sexually—and I can see your blush from here, it makes the heavens glow, you stinker. Anyway, she asked about us. Not just you—but she does want to know about you an awful lot—but us. _Us_. She knows we were together now, and I kinda want to reward that, y'know? I will. I'm going to tell her our story. And if you happen to offer input, well, I won't turn it away. It sucks you never do, you know that, right? All those threats about haunting me if I kissed you that last time—because dammit, your lips still smelled like strawberry, and I'm totally not sorry for weirding out all those people in the church. I think one or two of them were jealous actually. God knows you looked good enough.

But here we are, I'm sitting on the couch, legs crossed, doing nothing in particular with my thirty-nine year—okay, fine—forty-one year old body. I've got a bowl of popcorn and a box of maltesers. Umm, yeah, they're maltesers this time. Joan got back from high school about an hour ago, and thankfully it's Kristoff's turn to cook, so we can both talk as long as we want. Could turn out to be a while. Joan actually looks a little pale. Apprehensive. Perhaps even afraid. So I move over to her, wrap my arms around her shoulders. She doesn't try and break away like she used to. Like you used to, stinker. So I've got my arms around her shoulders, and she just leans into my chest, lets her braid fall past me. I can hear some sniffling coming from my daughter. I don't like it. I don't like it when anyone is sad—even though sometimes we have to be.

"Mom?" it's tentative, unsure, like she's sounding me out. I have an idea where this might be going.

"Yes, Joan?"

"Can you—can you tell me about auntie Elsa?" which really was not what I had been expecting. I mean sure, someday I expected she would want to hear it. But not today, just some random Tuesday. I guess life is just messy like that. I told you it was, and you never wanted to believe me—until our first night together. God that was hilarious. And sexy. And fun. And I wish we'd had more like it, the passion, the fumbling, the desire. I guess we did. Less fumbling though. That's not what Joan means though—maybe when she's a little older she can hear that part, though I did give her the talk a couple years back now.

"It's a long story, Joan. Sad, too," it's not an excuse, I'm just making sure she knows what she's in for. "So I guess I should probably start at the beginning, when I hit her with my bike."

"You what!" Oh, right, I haven't actually told her this part of the story properly yet—I just said I was visiting you in hospital, an old friend. Well, time to put a few little lies to bed then.

"It all started eighteen years ago, I was a young twenty-something wannabe with a bike, my riding gear, and not a whole lot else. Thank Kristoff for keeping me going there too."

"You hit auntie Elsa with your _bike?_ " She seems to be a little stuck there right now.

"I did."

"Your. Bike." Clearly she's having some sort of trouble processing this revelation. Makes sense, really. It's not every day you find out your surrogate parent nearly killed your biological mother in a high speed collision. At the time, of course, I had no way of knowing it was a deliberate act. Truck in front of me swerved to avoid something, so I swung wide, throttling down. That's when the blonde in the middle of the road jumped at me. I hit the brakes, turned broadside and slid fifty feet. I could actually feel something breaking under the rear wheel of my bike. I take my time to explain all this to Joan, and her eyes, when she turns to look up at me, are full of fire.

"You nearly killed auntie Elsa?!"

"She—" it's hard to say, even now. Even after sixteen and a half years. I know why you did it, and there's part of me that hated you for it, for the longest time, and you knew it. I made sure you did so you never did anything that stupid ever again. But there's another part of me, small, and alone, but it can't help but love your actions. Because if you hadn't jumped out then, maybe the car behind me would have hit you, and you'd've been dead—and I would live my life never knowing what true love was, or how to treat myself properly. Shit… Hans might have killed me, in the end, if you hadn't thrown yourself at me in your stupid suicide attempt. "—She wanted to die, Joan, baby. She just found out."

"About the cancer?"

"Yes." And now, this is where our story really starts, doesn't it? A literal 'crash into hello'. So now all I've got to do is take a deep breath, and then I'll be able to tell our daughter everything.

—∞—

It was my first Ninja, a beautiful Kawasaki bike, and I'd just picked it up from the shop after getting the engine tuned for better mid-range. More useful around the city. I was on my way back from work, Lzzy Hale singing in my ear about tired mechanical hearts, and Lindsey Stirling starting up with that amazing violin work she always does. Shatter Me—that was the song. It's a good one, and that's what it felt like when I saw the blonde goddess step out into the street—shattered, I mean. She wasn't looking, and a truck had just swerved across the other lane to avoid her, narrowly missing an oncoming SUV. I could hear the brakes screeching as she turned to the left, staring at me. I already knew it was too late.

She moved towards me, not trying to avoid my bike. I'd already slammed on the brakes, but there was just enough water from the afternoon rains to make my bike fishtail. I was already horrified and paralyzed, frozen with one hand on the brakes, and one leg desperately trying to push the bike aside. It was too late, and I felt the crash as my rear wheel encountered something less durable than the asphalt. I could feel the crack through the frame of my bike. I actually heard the crack as my music cut out. The scream. She screamed as the tail of my bike slammed into her leg and I slid into the kerb. I could hear the squeal of brakes behind me as I was half-thrown from the seat of the Ninja, landing hard, skidding several feet on the sidewalk.

Somehow—I don't know how, really—I found myself quite close to the woman. I was kind of dazed by the impact, but I threw my helmet off and ran back to the blonde. It was bad. I think she must have blacked out, because the screaming had stopped—but I could tell her leg was a mess. Her right leg, white fragments of bone sticking out of her shin, her knee swollen, and blood pooling through her jeans and onto the road. Her thigh was worse, a spear of bone sticking out two inches from her torn and bloodied jeans. I'm not sure I had the presence of mind to call an ambulance, but I did manage to wrap my jacket around her. That was when I saw the car, stopped just short of us, bumper only inches from the young woman I'd hit.

I was sitting behind her, sort of cradling her in my arms. That's what the jacket was for, to keep her warm to prevent shock. I'll admit now I hadn't done much first aid, but I remember watching scenes like this in a lot of movies, and everyone always got a jacket or a blanket. So she got mine. It was the least I could do. I brushed her hair aside, out of her face, because some of it had gotten tangled.

I really got a good look at her face then. If I wasn't already down on my knees I would've doubled over in shock. It felt like I'd tried to kill an angel—except, this one was already broken. Her skin was sallow, pale, almost lacking any colour at all. Her jawline was sharp, and she had cheekbones I could kill for, but the gauntness of her face was enough to destroy that beauty. But I saw deeper, not what she was, but what she could have been—and I'd nearly killed her. I was terrified of what I'd done, and it was all I could do just to sit there, cradling her in my arms. She woke up, or regained consciousness, or whatever the proper term is after passing out from shock. But her first words weren't to blame me, or to try and force everyone back. They didn't even sound pained, though they were distant.

"You're hurt."

I felt her delicate fingers tracing a line down my cheek, and her fingertips came away red and bloody. That was my blood. I couldn't feel anything. I noticed then that my wrist was sore, and my left ankle felt like it was on fire. Probably broken, or at the least very badly sprained. It wasn't long before an ambulance arrived, and for expediency's sake, I guess, we were both loaded on to the same vehicle. She never pressed charges—I only figured out why later though. Still had my license temporarily suspended while the cops investigated the accident. Hans told me he pulled some strings to make sure I wouldn't be convicted. Back then I was naive and desperate enough to believe him.

—∞—

Looking over at Joan, I know I can't tell her what Hans was really like, what he did to me, nearly every day. How illegal it was, and how scared I was. He abused his power as an officer of the law, and it took Kristoff and Elsa together to give me the courage to finally leave him. That was also the night I got stabbed—and the night I nearly let the world go on without me. So I turn to Joan, and ask what is, for me, a hard question—because it feels like I'm betraying something, even though it's nonsense.

"Is it okay if I don't tell you about Hans?"

"It's fine mom," here Joan reaches out to reassure me, her hands over mine. It's a gentle warmth, acceptance. She's smart, too. "I know they're bad memories—and that's why I never ask about them. And… and I know it hurts to talk about auntie Elsa, but you loved her so much, and I really want to know why."

Sometimes I think she's too good for me. Too good for us, really. If you're up there, I hope you're smiling down on her, because she deserves all your love and encouragement. Don't let her go. Watch over her—she's your daughter too, and maybe more yours than mine, you stinker. She's got your stubborn streak, your eyes, and Kristoff's nose—which might be considered unlucky in certain circles. She did get my sense of humour though, so I think we're even.

"You'll learn why soon enough baby," I wink at our daughter. "And it wasn't just the tongue thing either."

"Eww, mom, gross!" Now I have to dodge a cushion, and I'm not quite as fast as I used to be, so I get a face full of dusty fabric. Which reminds me, it's Joan's turn to do the dusting and the vacuuming again. I've got laundry, and Kristoff's got kitchen duties. And while I'm thinking this, she's still wailing on me with the pillow, so I grab it and hold firm.

"Like you never kissed a girl," I can't resist teasing her sometimes. Especially because I'd just come around to pick her up from a party and caught her in the act. Apparently it was humiliating, because a) she got caught, b) she got caught kissing a girl, c) she got caught kissing a girl by her mom, and finally, d) she got caught kissing a girl by her mom while leaving a party. I never judged her for it—but I did need to edit the version of the talk I gave her to make sure she knew it was okay; it didn't matter who she loved, as long as they loved her back. At least, that's the way I've always felt it should be.

"One time, mom. One freaking time." But I can see the smile she's trying desperately to hide. Her name is Tina, and she's adorably tiny compared to Joan. Everyone calls her Tink, after Tinkerbell, because of the short hair and manic energy—and because her best friend is Peter. She comes over every now and then, and Joan claims they're 'just good friends', but I have my suspicions.

"You've got some chores you need to do, and you've got fencing tonight."

"I know," maybe I sound like a broken record to her, but I swear she also inherited my organizational skills, rather less fun than my sense of humour.

"I'll continue the story at bedtime… how's that?"

"Mo–om."

I shrug, and sigh. I know she'll listen anyway, and once I'm gone, she'll be out of the covers and on her computer again. I know what I was like at that age. It's hard for her to appreciate that I was there too, once; so I can actually sympathize. Probably just a rebellious phase, testing out the boundaries we've established for her. Me and Kristoff, that is; both physical and mental. Places she shouldn't go, things she shouldn't do, things she should never have to learn. Is it so bad we want to protect her? And is it wrong that I want you to protect her too, Elsa? Am I just losing my mind, or am I properly paying my respects? I don't know anymore. Sixteen years and that line has faded so much I have no idea where it is now. I have to talk to Kristoff when he gets home—he'll be able to steer me safely through the chaos, like he always has.


	3. Stonewalled

 

She got home a wreck—Joan, I mean. It was a particularly hard night at fencing, apparently, and she's sporting a few new bruises. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was being hurt like I was—but she wears these marks with pride, and there's not a hint of fear about her when any kind of conflict might be involved. I wish I'd had that kind of courage, but maybe I wouldn't have met you then, Elsa. I wordlessly direct our daughter to the shower, holding my nose with one hand, and as she walks past she sticks out her tongue. So very lady like. Kristoff's wit and my sense of humour, which is surely a dangerous combination when we add your brain power in there.

She takes forever in that shower, I swear to god. I'm glad we got a recycler unit for the thing, the power and water savings are insane. You'd have liked that technology too, because apparently it came from a NASA project. I guess that's one regret we'll always share… we never did get to that weightless dancing, though I'm sure I would have had the tact and grace of a baked potato. What? You know how, uhh, 'well', I danced those few times. At least you were a good sport.

I can hear the shower hissing away, and the water suddenly stops. It's like that, actually; no post-flow. We're big on saving the environment here—with the exception of my bike, which only comes out on weekends and special occasions. And I'm rambling in my thoughts because I've never been good at waiting and now Joan is walking past me, still dripping, towel wrapped around her middle. Her left arm isn't just bruised; there's a gash six inches long running from her shoulder to her elbow.

"Joan, baby, are you alright?" I couldn't help myself. "Who did this to you?!"

"Mom, fencing. It happens."

I can only nod. It has happened before, but not this bad. "It doesn't happen to you."

"It does mom, why do you think I spent three weeks last summer not wearing tank tops?"

"I just thought you were getting cold," which was a lie, because I'd seen the marks, but I'd managed to put two and two together before calling the cops. Before telling Kristoff about it, even. But this was new, it meant something had obviously gone wrong. Badly. And I tend to get concerned when she gets hurt because she's all I've got left of you. Well, I've got the videos and the pictures, but she… she has your essence, Elsa. That bright spark that was your soul, she's got a fraction of it. I don't want to lose you again. A hand was waving in front of me.

"Mom?" She's smiling, hand on my shoulder. "You just zoned out there for a second. I'm fine, okay?"

"No. Wait, yes. No—" I sigh, because I know I'm not gonna be happy until I get to the bottom of this, even if it is an accident. "Will you tell me what happened, please?"

"Can I at least get dressed first?" Oh, right, she's still only wearing a towel, dripping onto the hardwood floor of the hallway. Well, at least she avoided the rug this time. I let her go. She'll be back shortly. Well, she'll invite me in, because there's nowhere really to sit and talk in the upstairs hall. Speaking of which, you remember the time we were… with just our socks, racing up and down this hall? I loved your laugh so much that day; because you were happy like a child, and so was I, and we didn't have to worry about cancers or ex-husbands or even extra shifts at work the next day. It was always the little things, wasn't it?

"Mom, you can come in now," and Joan's head disappears back behind the frame of her door. She's actually under the covers by the time I get there, but I can hear her computer humming in the background, music playing quietly as we begin to talk. I didn't know she liked Cat Stevens, but there it is. Or maybe she's playing it because she knows I like this one, and it's to set me at ease. It's working too, the soft, subtle guitar melodies. I still take her arm in my hands, inspecting the cut. It doesn't look very deep, but it is kind of rough.

"You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine mom, it just stings a little. We disinfected it properly at practice. Phil said it was good practice to learn how to treat cuts like this." Phil's her fencing instructor. Good sort of guy, not that you'd know just by looking at him. He's Greek, but rather portly, and if you hadn't seen him handle a sword you'd have no idea what he was supposed to do in life. He can also play the pan pipes, and the lyre. He's apparently a big name in the SCA community too.

"You should probably bandage it up anyway, baby. Just in case."

"We don't have any bandaids big enough." I could see her winking at me. She's playing the tomboy card again. She doesn't do it too often, but when she does, I generally let it slide. Mostly because it means she's taken after me a little bit too. I'll take what victories I can get.

"Okay, but we're wrapping it up in the morning. You could always wear that sleeveless dress Tina bought you that you think no one knows about."

"Mom!" I can't help it sometimes, I tease _everyone_. And that's your fault, for rising to the bait so many times. I never dared do anything like that with Hans, but with you, with Kristoff, even with Joan here, it's worthwhile. They tease me back of course; I expect no less from my family. But she's smiling, so I guess it's not that bad of an idea. "Hey, if I start wearing a big bandage like that, people are gonna ask about the story behind it." Oh no. "So I can tell them my story." Here we go. "Or your story." Yup. "Or someone else's story…" why did I let her read Flynn Rider? "And I can change it every time." Maybe she's been reading tvtropes again. Multiple choice history, there. Too smart for her own good.

"You still haven't told me how this happened." I'm curious, because injuries like this do happen sometimes, just not to my baby girl. Phil did have us sign a liability waiver though, understanding that people might get hurt, and it that it might not be avoidable. I'll help her bandage it in the morning. Joan takes a deep breath, and when she speaks she's actually rather quiet.

"My gambeson tore. Adam got me with a high strike, and it caught the shoulder of my gambeson, ripped the laces, and went down my arm. It was an accident, and it was my fault."

"How was it your fault?" Because accidents aren't meant to be anyone's fault. That's why we call them accidents. But she seems pretty convinced this one was hers.

"I got there late, remember?" And I do remember, because I dropped her off, after we hit every red light on the way there. Five minutes had become fifteen by the time we arrived. I hate cross-town traffic. "I armed up, but I didn't check my gear. I would've seen how badly frayed that loop was if I'd have checked my gear. If this was a real fight I'd be missing an arm."

"That's not funny," because I suddenly saw a vision of her going through the rest of her life with only one arm. How difficult would that have been, even with modern prosthetics? She might actually have taken to one of the new interfaced models, but it would have been a life changing event—like nearly killing someone you never knew.

"I know mom, it's not funny—but it's true. I'm glad we don't live in that kind of time."

"It wasn't all bad," I slip her a wink as she slips her arms under the covers, shuffling slightly to get comfortable. "Remind me to tell you about the time me and Elsa tried on corsets…" Well, did her eyebrows shoot up at that. You remember that little boutique store, don't you? I still have that forest green piece we decided on—still wear it sometimes too. What, I like to feel sexy, and sometimes Kristoff's not around. Don't judge me. But you know that's not why we bought it, we bought it because it was a present to myself, for that christmas, and ever since you'd showed me those pictures, I'd wanted one. I'd never treated myself to that kind of reward before. I hadn't felt worthy. The leafy design around the edges hasn't faded either.

"Maybe later," Joan winks at me. "But you promised me a bedtime story."

She's right, I did. I keep my word, but I still have to ask: "Aren't you a little old for bedtime stories?"

"No…" Her voice is playfully whiny, but there's anxiety there too. She wants to know, and she's afraid I won't tell her. "But I gotta know—what happened after you hit auntie Elsa with your bike. You just got taken to hospital in the same ambulance, and…" Well, that's as good a lead in as anything, so I begin my story the next day. I leave out what happened that night, how Hans punished me for nearly killing someone, and what he promised to do if I failed to apologize to the young woman whose name I didn't know at the time. I still let her know about my injuries though, because they're integral to the story, much as I hate being reminded of them and how I got them.

—∞—

It was the next day, and I was sporting a black eye that had nothing to do with the crash. Apparently I had been a stupid little bitch riding far too fast for the wet roads. The protest that she'd jumped out in front of me had just earned me gut punch hard enough to double me over. I had to lie to the doctors, tell them it was from the crash—even though they'd seen me just yesterday. But doctors are smart. I wandered down clean, white halls, hearing monitors beeping and ventilators hissing. It sounded just like a movie hospital, even with the pagers and the conversations held just outside patient's rooms.

There was one patient in particular I was looking for. I had to apologize if I wanted to not get hurt again. An orderly helped me hobble in on crutches—my ankle had been broken. I asked why they'd let me in, and they explained that the woman lying in that bed had no next of kin. At all. No parents, no siblings, no children, no friends, not even an I.C.E. contact. I blinked back tears. She was alone in the world, and I'd nearly killed her—I would have been the only one to know she was gone, carrying her death on my conscience for the rest of my life. It was a sobering thought. My jacket lay next to her on the bed, and the orderly explained that they'd been unable to take it from her, no matter how hard they'd tried—she'd gone ballistic every time, and when they took it while she was asleep, when she woke, she was so panicked they'd had to sedate her. The orderly told me it indicated underlying psychological issues, so if she woke up, I had to be careful what I said.

I sat softly in an uncomfortable chair next to the blonde goddess's bed. My crutches resting between my legs and against my shoulder, because I wasn't sure I'd be staying long. Two hours later, she woke up. Her eyes were a piercing, crystal blue. I still didn't know her name, and apparently she'd been admitted as a Jane Doe because the only ID she'd had was the bank card in my jacket pocket. She coughed harshly, and I offered her the water from the bedside table. She pushed my hand away so hard I nearly spilled the drink.

"You nearly killed me," she croaked out, and it took me a long time to figure out the emotion behind her words. Because she wasn't angry, or worried, or anything a normal person would feel. She was disappointed. She was disappointed to be alive. Underlying psychological issues my ass—she was suicidal. I don't know why I hadn't seen it then; maybe I was just blindsided by everything that had happened. It only clicked on the taxi ride home how she'd said what she did.

That was pretty much the totality of our first conversation. Not the most auspicious of starts, but people have done more with less. I asked for a name, got stonewalled. Asked if she was okay; stonewalled. Asked if she minded if I visited again in a couple of days. She froze me out, completely. Not a word, not even a raised eyebrow. She just looked blankly ahead, like a deer in the headlights. But every time I asked something, she would scowl at me. She didn't answer, but I got the feeling I wasn't welcome. I can't say I blamed her either.

I made it home safely, and as I was walking up the porch steps I realized I hadn't taken the time to apologize. I doubted she would have listened anyway. I lacked a number to call her on, and her phone had been all but destroyed by the crash anyway. Yeah, great plan Anna, call the phone you ran over, it'll work brilliantly. I still have plans like that, even today.

—∞—

"Geez, mom, auntie Elsa sounds like she was kind of a bitch," and a shocked hand covered an equally shocked mouth. Joan didn't curse much, so when she did, it had an effect—usually on her. I smiled before answering her.

"She was, honestly, if I hadn't forgotten to apologize, I don't know if I'd gone back for another visit."

"I guess you did though, or I wouldn't be here." She's smart, although that one is blindingly obvious. She wants me to continue the story, I can tell, because she's trying to predict where it went. Well, some of it's going to be easy to figure out. And for some points I have visual aids, because we made a few videos, and tried to take lots of pictures. Until you dropped your phone in the lake—we got the pictures back though, you'll be happy to know.

"You're right—now if you'll let me continue the story?"

—∞—

I didn't make it back the next day, but I did see Kristoff. Told him I'd be off for some time with my broken ankle. He suggested I just work from a chair, or lying under everything, just like I always do. I couldn't, of course, because the painkillers were dulling my mind as well, and I needed to be sharp for work. He still asked for a medical certificate—for the company's records, because he could quite clearly see how injured I was. He tried brushing my hair out of my face, and I flinched. I didn't want him to see what Hans had done. I didn't want to get Hans in trouble. I was afraid if anyone found out he'd hurt me worse—or leave.

"Stop." I had to. Kristoff has a voice that urges you to obey. I held stock still as he approached, frozen in place while he tenderly brushed my hair aside. He frowned and shook his head, and I could tell he was both angry and disappointed. My fault for being careless. I was told that so many times I believed it. He let my hair brush past my eyes again, and when he spoke his voice was concerned. "You have to stop letting him treat you like this, Anna. It's not right."

"He's a cop—what can I do?"

We didn't know. Back then, we didn't. It was my excuse; my fear; my whatever; it was the reason I couldn't do anything about the situation I was in. Why people couldn't help me. I remember it was lunchtime, so Kristoff offered to drop me home, because I didn't live too far from our workshop. I told him I'd walk it off, and he laughed.

"Alright, feistypants. Take it easy." I did, making it about a block before urgently looking for something to sit on. No parks nearby, but there was a bus stop, so it had a seat. That was all I really cared about. The rest of the day was a blur, but I cooked something nice for Hans, and hoped he wouldn't ask about the woman in the hospital. To my great surprise he didn't ask anything, and he virtually collapsed when he came in the door. It was the weakest he'd ever let me see him. A moment later I knew why.

"Lieutenant Gaston didn't make it."

The news, the sirens, the bulletin at about 4:45. Everything came crashing together. I'd never really liked Gaston—he was, honestly, a vain, arrogant bastard—but I hadn't wanted him to die. I'll admit, I was sad. Probably sadder than Hans was, because I was thinking about his friend, Inspector Lefou—a bumbling sort, but good at the paperwork side of the job, and a solid forensic analyst. Lefou was my friend too, and I knew this would hit him hard. I was torn now—did I go see my bitchy Jane Doe, or did I comfort a grieving friend?

—∞—

"So, what did you do?" Joan yawned widely. Any night she spent fencing I knew she'd sleep soundly. Exhausted people do that. I don't say anything, I just tuck her in, and she doesn't even protest this time. I pat her uninjured arm softly, and kiss her forehead, sweeping platinum bangs out of the way. She smiles sleepily at me and shifts under the covers. I pause at her vanity, and flick on the radio. It's playing The Fray — How to save a life, and I'm tempted to stay and listen, but she closes her eyes, and smiles again. I turn out the light and close the door to her room.

I'll tell her tomorrow.


	4. Trouble

She likes bandages, Elsa, but I think I might have already told you that. She's kind of like I was as a kid, getting into all sorts of scrapes, and I swear to God she's _proud_ of these little injuries. She lies about them, of course, but its not to protect anyone—it's because she wants to be a badass, like her mom was. Is. I still have the leathers, and I still ride my bike sometimes. But it was you that showed me I shouldn't take shit from anyone. Anyway, back on topic, Joan's wearing a sleeveless tank, that same blue you liked so much. It's summer, for a while longer anyway, but I know she's doing it to show off her bandage. She's got her hair up in a princess braid, but she's tied a bandanna over it. Looks kinda rakish, which I guess is the point.

"We never should have let her read Flynn Rider," Kristoff mock-whispers in my ear.

"I heard that, dad." She pokes her tongue out at him, continuing with as much sass as she can muster—which, being a fifteen year old, is actually quite a lot. "And anyway, I'm way prettier than Flynn Rider ever was."

"Oh, I'm not so sure Snowflake, there was the time he visited Weselton."

"That totally doesn't count—that spell could've hit anyone."

"Sure it could." Kristoff's smiling too much for his own good, so I give him a little smack. He takes my wrist before I can deliver a second one. "I think I've been betrayed…"

I'm holding my tongue, trying to look innocent. That, or seductive, I'm not really sure what I'm going for, aside from distracting him. It works, and when our lips part, I can hear Joan's complaints about such public displays of affection.

"Eww, mom, dad, gross. There are _children_ here."

"Really?" I give our daughter a pointed look. "You've been trying to convince us how grown up you are for months now. This is something grown-ups do."

"Yeah, _other_ grown-ups. You two are my parents, I thought you had, like, standards."

"Oh, we do," I wave an airily dismissive hand at her. "Sometimes we just get caught up in the moment; don't we, Reindeer King?"

"Hey, leave me out of this," and the big lug holds up his hands like this is all my problem. Probably for the Reindeer King remark. You get drunk at a party once, and all your friends remember what you did. But hey, nothing was broken, and whoever photoshopped it afterwards did a pretty good job. That picture is the one in my locket, along with Elsa's, in the middle of her first major performance. That was the most sublime thing I've ever seen, to this day. Elsa could just lose herself in dance. It was like she would let go of everything, and the only thing that mattered anymore was the dance itself. She was a goddess of motion and beauty. Not unlike Joan with a sword. Speaking of which…

"You don't have fencing today, so you can just leave that right there on the counter."

"But mom…"

"No. Look, I know it probably completes your look, but you remember what happened last time?" She winced visibly. Now that had been an entertaining story to bring home. Carrying weapons in public, even those with foiled edges, tended to be a bad idea, even when dressed in obviously historical garb. The chagrined smile on her face as she sat there in the foyer, scabbard across her thighs, talking with Lefou, had been quite a sight. I hadn't known she'd also taken the sword for show and tell. Children.

"Okay, fine."

"You've got the bandage anyway, and you look pretty rough—I think you'll pass. Hmm…" Now comes the part where I take her idea and run with it. She wants to be badass, and I have just the thing. She's asking Kristoff questions in a rather confused voice as I dash upstairs to the master bedroom. My jacket is in the closet. It's a little large for her, of course, but hey, at short notice it'll do. I take it back down the stairs and throw it over her shoulders.

"Mom?"

"…adds to the story, baby. You took this from your vanquished foe, as recompense for making you bleed."

"Mom!" The way her face just lit up, I can see so much of us in there, and sometimes it hurts. Today's going to be a good day for her, I know it. We dropped her off at school and headed to work. Me and Kristoff, we work together. Our workshop isn't exactly large, but it's well appointed, and Audrey is a hell of a machinist. She's kept us going for a long time, and she can weld nearly as well as me or Kristoff can. Brunette, wears a small crystal pendant and overalls half a size too large. She's a bit of a bruiser, but that may have something do with her sister who fights in MMA competitions. We would also have Maurice, who's honestly a little nuts, but has a good head on his shoulders when it comes to process improvement. Except he's at home taking care of his daughter, Belle. She and Adam had a falling out, and apparently it got violent. She's only a little older than Joan, so it shook us all up.

Maybe that's why Joan started asking about me and Elsa. It might be she wants to know about other kinds of love, because she knows of two horribly abusive relationships; mine, with Hans; and Belle's, with Adam. The heartbreaking thing is that it's not Adam's fault. He has severe PTSD from a single tour in Kyrgyzstan, and it took a long time for him to come right. He still doesn't know his own strength, because he was equipped with first generation interface prostheses before he mustered out, and the limiters are unreliable. Worse yet is that his body—or his mind? maybe?—rejects the newer commercial models. Safer, sleeker, less… I'm not sure really. Less… unnatural.

I've often asked Kristoff if there was anything we could do to help, but it's beyond our capabilities. We do medium and heavy stainless fabrication for plant machinery. Completely different discipline to prosthetics work. It still wouldn't help Adam though, because most of the problems are in his mind, and while he does respond to medication, the side effects can be crippling. I talked to Belle about it once, because she knew I had an abusive ex. But this is different, because she really does love him, and he loves her, but there's a wall between them. She told me she'd rather suffer the abuse than see him so broken on those medications. I can't agree, not when I see the red marks and bruises that remind me of my own darker past.

"Feistypants, earth your work or you won't be welding anything down there." Yeah, I feel like facepalming, except all I'd do was smudge the visor on my welding mask. It's work time, and I have to concentrate. Everything else goes away while I'm welding, it's only me, the torch, my workpiece, and the filler rod. Nothing else exists, only the weld. One seam done, my mind wanders to how crazy Elsa thought I was for that—until she described dancing to me in exactly the same way. Psychologists call it 'flow', which is just a fancy word for getting lost in the moment, but somehow, it fits.

Quarter past one I get a call from Universal Heights; Joan's school. She got into a fight, but she was apparently provoked. I have to admit to being disappointed in her at this exact moment, but I'll listen to her side of the story. Maybe there's a good reason she's fighting. She's combative, even, dare I say it, tempestuous, in much the same way I was at that age. She doesn't often get into this much trouble though, just the usual playground scuffles. She's normally the protector anyway, making sure other people don't get hurt. I guess we're all proud of that. Even you'd be proud of that, right? I'm not sure Elsa's up there, but I keep talking in my head like she is. I like to believe she's watching over us—just my—our—family. Maybe she does it in secret, when she's not off dancing through the heavens being the beautiful angel she always was.

And then I tell Kristoff I've got to head out to collect Joan, and one short conversation later he hands me the keys to our car. He'll take the work van home if I'm not back by closing. The drive doesn't stand out in any way. Just mid-town traffic and a lot of lights. And at the school the first person to greet me is Ms Yzma. She's a haggard old crone that seems to hate everything—but she's got a real mean streak if people try to damage the school. She passed old twenty years ago. By rights she should be dead by now, and I think the only thing keeping her going is pure spite. She plans to outlive the contractors that demolished the east wing of the assembly block when the school had been foreclosed. No one knows who stumped up the money to save the place, it just showed up in the school account apparently, and no amount of digging could find that mysterious benefactor.

Because she was dead. She never existed, in fact. I might have spent a good portion of my life savings on preserving Elsa's legacy, but she spent the greatest part of hers on preserving and preparing for mine. She knew Joan would need a good school. I honestly don't know how much money is left in that trust, but apparently it could run the school for a thousand years and still have change. I have to admit I kinda like that idea. Less so the idea of needing to pull our daughter out of school for the afternoon. And there she is, sitting in the chair, blowing her bangs out of her face, trying to hide the cut on her cheek and her bruised knuckles at the same time. Looks like she got into a good one this time. She's also cradling her left arm a bit, holding tight against the bandage.

"Mrs Bergman, thank you for coming." As always, principal Jones was all business. "Joan got into a fight, as you can clearly see." Well, I had been told as much on the phone, and the evidence was on her face and hands. "This is obviously against school rules; no violence against other students will be permitted. No abuse, physical or verbal. I don't blame your daughter for standing up for her friend, but there are most definitely better ways to do things." There usually are, but I guess, like me, Joan loses sight of them in the heat of the moment.

"He left out the part where they hit Tink first," I gave a Joan a sharp look, then turned back to Jones.

"Is that true?"

"If it is, Miss Belafont isn't saying anything. My office is as far as this goes. No one was seriously hurt, people were provoked, and your daughter thought she was acting in the best interests of someone else."

"I totally was. You know Tink doesn't like violence." I do know, and I know how shy she could be sometimes.

"Even so, you shouldn't have thrown that punch." Yeah, she didn't like hearing that. Lashing out wasn't right, and I would have to have a talk with Joan when we got home. Self defense is one thing, which is all the other kids were probably responsible for. Joan had gone further than just protecting her friend though, due to having my temper—well, my younger temper. I'm an idiot sometimes. Maybe she needs to hear a different part of the story tonight—maybe she needs a lesson, not a story.

"Principal Jones, are we done here?" he nodded brusquely. I rose, firmly taking hold of Joan's uninjured arm. "Right, young lady, you're coming with me."

"But—"

"No buts. You know you're not supposed to fight the other kids." I let out an angry huff. "Damn it, Joan, I thought I raised you better than that."

"I…" I could see the shame and embarrassment on her face, and I loosened my grip on her arm just a little. "You did mom… but… you know, right?"

"I know baby, I know. It's not always easy being different."

"No, I meant… auntie Elsa, it's—she's—sacred. Sacrosanct"—it sometimes surprises me that our daughter knows words like that, but as much as she might be a scrapper 'cause of me, she got her smarts because of you. "If I let just one person say that without doing something about it, then… then everyone gets to, because there's nothing to stop them anymore." Ah, the classic fear/respect dichotomy. She hasn't figured out how to make them respect Elsa's legacy yet, so all she can do is hang the threat of punishment over their heads if they disrespect it. She definitely needs to hear more of the story.

"What about them hitting Tina—did they really do that?"

"Yes, mom, they did. After she told them what a good person auntie Elsa must have been for you to have loved her so much. Then they started insulting all of us, Me, Tink, you, and auntie Elsa. They hit Tink because she wouldn't let go of the idea that auntie Elsa must have been a good person. I guess… I guess maybe they thought they could beat it out of her." She takes a moment to rub her bandaged arm, but she's wearing a savage grin. "I made sure they didn't." I just shook my head. You want your children to turn out like you—but better than you were. Being a better fighter was _not_ what I had intended.

Maybe telling her about Lefou was a good idea—because _he_ wouldn't let me speak ill of Gaston, much of an ass as he might have been to everyone. Respect for the dead, and Lefou taught me some of that. Even if I didn't like someone, their being dead didn't excuse my words. Maybe that would serve as a good lesson, because Lefou had done all that without so much as raising his voice. That's where I'll pick up from next time.


	5. Respect

We're home, and I sprawl out across the entire couch. Elsa's couch, which we never replaced. We never needed to, it's just so durable. Joan flops down on top of me in what may be the least ladylike manner ever. She's getting heavy, but it's all muscle. I wrap one arm around her, fumbling for the remote with my other hand. I channel surf, finding a music channel, turning the volume down. Just a little background noise. I give my daughter a pat on the back, trying to reassure her.

"Tina will be fine."

"I–I know, mom. It's just… ugh." Well, frustrated sighs never did sound pretty. But, there is a lesson here. Well, actually, I'll be giving her one, the same one Lefou gave me. With a few carefully chosen words he managed to change the way I saw Gaston completely. They're called revelations for a reason. Joan rests her head against my shoulder, and its at this point I realize how hard it is for both of us to actually fit on the couch—mostly because half of me is now hanging precariously over the edge of the seats and Joan is slowly sinking into the gap between the cushions and the backrest.

"Mom?"

"Yes?" I manage to ask before slipping sideways onto the floor.

"I think the couch is trying to eat me."

"Well, I'm sure it's gotten more than its fair share of popcorn and maltesers. Feel around down there, you might find some." I grin as she screws up her face at the thought. I know better, of course. Every few months I'll give the couch a thorough cleaning. Part of the reason it's lasted so long. She sits up a little straighter, lounging against the armrest the way I used to do. Yes, we share certain mannerisms. I take a seat against the other armrest.

"Joan," I begin, using my sternest voice. "You know you shouldn't be fighting with the other kids at school"—I hold up a hand to forestall any possible protest—"I'm not saying what you did is wrong—No, wait, actually I might be. _Why_ you did it is more important. Protecting Tina was noble, and the right thing to do—but we both know you didn't have to fight back. I've seen you training defense with Phil a few times, dagger and unarmed, I know you could've done it."

"They already hit Tink," Joan protested, hands balling into fists. "I couldn't defend her from both of them—I _had_ to attack."

"You could have walked away. Gone to one of your teachers, or just somewhere more open, where they couldn't corner you and Tina." She's too much like me, and I know even as I say the words they would never have been followed. I wouldn't have either. We protect our friends, sometimes with violence, sometimes all we need is a few words. And sometimes we need distance and perspective before we do something stupid.

"Mom, they would have followed us—and they were insulting everyone, especially auntie Elsa. I… I couldn't stand it."

"I know, baby, I know." I do, because Elsa's memory is something we all protect. For a long time after she passed even the smallest slight against her would get me fired up. More than once Kristoff had to hold me back. Then there were the few times he wasn't there to stop me. So yeah, there may be an assault charge still on my record. I regret that—I wish I'd known how to be a bigger person back then. Well, I had, I was just… overcome. It's not easy to get over the death of your best friend, lover, soul mate, and wife. Maybe I still haven't completely come to grips with it, but I live a relatively normal life now. Well, about as normal as anything in this crazy world gets.

"Mom?" There's a hand in front of my eyes. "You kinda just zoned out for a minute."

I blink, lowering Joan's hand with my own. "I was just thinking about the trouble I got into, fighting people that disrespected Elsa. I just don't want to see you making my mistakes."

"Then how can I make them understand?" there's a plaintive note to her voice. "How do I show them all the good you shared?"

"I don't know; but I know if you choose your words right, they'll know. It's how Lefou got me to respect lieutenant Gaston."

"He… he died, right?" Joan asks tentatively. "That night after you went to see auntie Elsa in the hospital."

—∞—

I went to see Lefou first. Being on crutches was actually a first too. It had been a startling week of firsts. Inspector Lefou was at home, on bereavement leave. Gaston had, after all, been his closest friend. Lefou's apartment was nice, if a little small. Cosy, he would always say. The décor and furniture had always seemed large for him though, but most items came only in set sizes, and he didn't normally fit into any one of those 'normal' categories. He was sitting at the table when I stepped inside, nursing a dangerously strong coffee. The disheveled hair and red rings under his eyes told me he hadn't slept a wink last night. I'd had problems sleeping too—but the reasons were much darker.

"Roland," I called out softly, hoping to catch his attention.

"Anna?" he turned, somewhat surprised. Maybe he wanted to be left alone. His voice was heavy, and edged with something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

"I, uh… hi?" I gave him a shy little wave. I wasn't really sure what to do. I knew that cops sometimes died in the line of duty, but it was something that happened in other places, never so close to home. I didn't have much experience comforting grieving friends anyway. I just didn't have that many friends. Not then. Lefou looked at me—past me—and I turned, trying to see what he saw in the empty doorway behind me.

Nothing.

I closed the door softly, hobbling over to the table. "Umm… can I help?"

"Can you bring back the dead?"

"You want him back?" there was an edge of disbelief in my voice. "After everything that bastard put you through?"

"Anna, I loved him. Dearly. I just want him back for a moment—just long enough to say goodbye." Lefou stared into his coffee for what seemed to be hours. "God… I miss him."

Well, I could understand missing him, even if he had been an ass to almost everyone he met. Everything was a competition. And he always had to win it, too. He was sure he could—too damn sure. He was vain, and arrogant. If he ever noticed me it was only to hit on me like I was some object that existed solely at his sufferance. I hated it. And, me being me, I told Lefou as much. I sometimes have problems with the whole brain-mouth filter thing. He looked up at me, a look of betrayal and disappointment etched across his face. I wanted to run, but that would only make things worse. I just hung my head in shame, waiting for someone to hit me for being so tactless.

"Anna, sit," it wasn't a command, but I hobbled over to the couch anyway. It was getting uncomfortable just standing there.

"Roland, I'm—" he cut me off with a wave of his hand, sitting down heavily next to me.

"You didn't know him like I did. He… he was only like that in public."

"Really?" I raised an eyebrow. I'd honestly thought Gaston would be like that all the time. It hadn't occurred to me he might show different faces to different people. Like I eventually learned Hans did. Lefou set his drink down on the coffee table and wrung his hands.

"Anna, you know that I'm—"

"Yes, I know. There's nothing wrong with men loving other men," I'd known for a while that Lefou was gay; I was one of the few people he could confide in. "I mean, assuming he's nice to you, and you like him, and no one gets hurt like last time…"

Lefou reached for his coffee, taking a sip and grimacing. "He always was nice to me."

"I must be missing something here, because I've never seen this boyfriend of yours."

Lefou smiled sadly, taking my hand. He looked me straight in the eye, and until he spoke I had no idea what he had been trying to tell me without saying it outright. "You could always see him, you just never looked."

One hand wasn't enough to cover my shocked gasp. I fell forwards, burying my face in my hands. How had I been so _blind?_ Lefou was right, I'd never looked, because I'd never expected it… not from either of them. His sadness made sense—he'd lost more than a friend, apparently, much more. I wanted to ask how long they'd been together, but that just seemed rude. I held my tongue, brushing away a few stray tears.

"Roland… I'm… just tell me… I want to help."

"Will you just sit here with me, for a while?"

He fumbled around under the magazines on his coffee table, finding the remote for his sound system. I recognized the song after the first few bars. Chasing Cars, by Snow Patrol. Grey's Anatomy—Lefou had many times professed his love for that show, and the characters' tumultuous lives. Maybe Gaston had liked it as well. Maybe Gaston had watched it just to be friends with Lefou. It was a strange thought, that Gaston might have done anything for the benefit of someone else. Lefou was sobbing quietly, so I slid over and wrapped my arm around his shoulders. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed right. He hiccoughed, smiling at me for half a second before the tears began again. Who was I to judge?

—∞—

At the time I had no idea what Lefou was going through. I only learned when I felt it myself, later, when I lost Elsa. I offer her a mental wave, and I like to imagine her waving back, wherever she is. I know now what Lefou felt, and how much my insensitive comments had shocked him.

"Inspector Lefou likes men?" Joan's first question, completely missing the point.

"Yes, he does. You've seen him out walking with Christian, haven't you?"

"Oh, so he's… and they…" Joan's doing that thing where she points in opposite directions with each hand. It's a sign she's putting things together in her head. "Oh…" That was when the penny dropped.

"You asked me something before I started telling you this story; you remember what it was baby?"

"I—Yes!" She smiles triumphantly. "So when Lefou told you Gaston was his boyfriend, that's when you actually respected Gaston?"

"Not really. I sort of did, but I didn't really get it. I figured it was just for Lefou; that I only had to be nice about Gaston around him."

"So if I tell those girls about Elsa, they'll only be nice about her around me and Tink?" Joan shakes her head, unable to accept such a limited victory. "It's not enough."

"No, it's not," I agree. "Lefou told me something just before I left: 'Being dead doesn't mean you stop respecting someone. Other people cared about him too. Imagine if that was you—what would they say?'." That was what stopped me back then. Forced me to take a fresh look at how I saw the world. If I died the next day, what would people have said? Well, I have an idea what _you_ might have said, given where we were at the time. Stinker. Anyway.

Joan's sitting cross-legged on the end of the couch now. I can tell she's processing all of this. It should help. I check the time on my watch, and somehow it's later than I thought. I flick Kristoff a text, telling him I'll be back at the workshop shortly; Joan's protesting, asking for more of the story. She wants to know if I saw Elsa that afternoon. Of course I did, but that's a story for later. Right now I have some responsibilities to take care of—and as punishment for fighting, Joan gets to do the dishes and the laundry. At least one of them needs to be done by the time I get home.

And later I can tell her about why Elsa was mad about my jacket.


	6. Family

Work. Eat. Sleep. That's been my routine for the past week. I haven't managed to find time to tell Joan more of our story, and I'm sorry about that. You could always come to her in a dream, you know that, right? Anyway, what's kept me so busy? We've been rebuilding a filler over at Naveen's factory. 64 filler heads, all with about two dozen pieces that need cleaning, inspection, and repair. Kristoff's had it worse than me, what with organizing the entire job. Me, him, and Maurice—Audrey stayed at the workshop, welding everything together for the new frames. It's gonna look totally awesome though, just you wait.

I have to blink as a hand waves in front of my eyes, and Joan chides me for drifting off again. I've _got_ to stop doing that. Yeah, like that's gonna happen. Anyway, it's story time again, and Joan is snuggled down underneath the covers. Tina's in a sleeping bag on the floor, and she'll be getting this part of the story direct from the source—apparently Joan has been telling her everything anyway. Well, it's annoying, but if my suspicions are right, they should have role models like us.

"Tina, are you even awake down there?" All I get in reply is half a snore. I guess not then. Joan can tell her later. Maybe it's better that way.

The radio is on in the background again, playing some older music that I swear must be… it is—Nothing Else Matters. And there we go, Joan's put it on the classic rock station I like. I'm starting to wonder if she secretly likes it as well, given how often I'm hearing it now.

"Come on, mom, you just left Lefou—umm, I think. Did you see auntie Elsa too?"

"I did, and I still didn't get my jacket back."

—∞—

I managed to make it just before the end of visiting hours. There was an accident somewhere and traffic backed up pretty bad—even the insanity of the average taxi driver couldn't get through this one. I had maybe an hour to talk to my Jane Doe. Still no ID, but they were trying to match her to medical records now. It was all so messed up, and I had no idea what do, aside from apologize for hitting her with my bike.

I hobbled in on my crutches, and she was awake this time. She turned to me, frowning, as if she wanted to yell at me to leave, but then she rolled onto her back, facing the ceiling. I wasn't sure if it was permission or just trying to ignore me, but I made my way to the chair next to her bed and sat down. My crutches slipped from my hands with a loud clatter and I heard the blonde cursing in a language that was clearly not English. Had her stonewalling the other day actually been a lack of comprehension? But no, she had spoken English with only the barest hint of an accent.

"I'm sorry," I'd said it, just like Hans ordered me to, but it felt empty. I meant it, but I could hardly comprehend the enormity of what I'd caused. "I ruined your life."

She didn't reply, just turned to frown at me. I think she was trying to burn me with her eyes. It did feel kinda warm, but in all the wrong ways.

"I ruined your life, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hit you with my bike. I'm sorry I broke your leg. I'm sorry, and I don't even know your name and I know sorry isn't enough but I just don't know what to say, okay? I just had to say sorry, or… or I'd be so hurt if anything happened. And I'm sorry I'm talking too much too. I'll be quiet now. I'll go away, you don't have to say anything." I sighed heavily, reaching for my crutches, straining to get up. "You can keep my jacket. I won't be needing it without a license."

"Thank you." She smiled at me. That smile, she was so beautiful when she smiled, I just wanted to see her do it again and again until her face cracked from smiling so much. She didn't ask me to stay, so I headed for the door. I stopped on an impulse, and thought about leaving my number on a scrap of paper on the stand by her bed. How would she get in touch with me? And what if Hans got to the phone first? Maybe it was best I didn't. I never wanted Hans to get anywhere near her. I was afraid he'd try to do to her what he always did to me. I closed the door to her room quietly behind me, wishing things could have been different.

That night I told Hans what I'd done and I got nothing out of him. At least he didn't hit me this time. I also told him I'd seen Lefou—I didn't mention anything of what I'd learned about Gaston. For that I got a quick kiss and a 'well done'. But all I could think about was that woman's smile—and ask myself why it was affecting me. I'd never really thought of another woman in that way, but somehow, with her, it was different. Maybe it was the mystery surrounding her. No name, no relatives, no one else in her life but the doctors; and me. I don't why I was drawn to her, but I was; same goes for why I wanted so badly to protect her.

I just didn't know.

—∞—

"Wow, auntie Elsa really didn't like you, did she?" Joan half mumbles from under the covers.

"Baby, you gotta remember it was only two days ago that I'd hit her with my bike," I let out a soft chuckle. "She needed time to forgive me; I needed time to work out the right things to say."

I can hear Tina snoring on the far side of the room, and Joan giggles. Sometimes I don't know what to do with them, but Joan's growing up, and I like to think she's a good influence on her friends. She is; I raised her properly. You'd be proud of me for that, right, Elsa? Yeah, I'm talking to shadows again, but I'm still not convinced you've left us completely.

"'night mom." Then Joan reaches out to turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. I bang my shin against something as I turn, cursing softly. "Oh, be careful," she chides me. Yeah, right. I can't see a damn thing.

"Just try not to stand on Tink." I roll my eyes as I hear sniggering coming from beneath the blankets on our daughter's bed. She's got your grace, but in the dark she's just as clumsy as me. I make it to the door without encountering any other obstacles and I close it softly behind me, not wanting to wake Tina. It's the first time her parents have let her stay the night on a school night. I certainly don't want to be responsible for anything untoward happening.

I take a quick shower, then slip into bed with Kristoff. We're both pretty beat after today, but it's nice to just cuddle sometimes. He's already half asleep, but he wraps his arms around me as I nestle into his chest. It feels safe here, and he has this subtle scent—which I still swear is reindeer, and he says is just woods-y. Doesn't matter, it's all warm and fuzzy and before long I'm asleep. I dream about you, Elsa, and it's a long time since that's happened. I feel disappointed in myself, but I'm not sure if it's because I have let you go, or because there are parts I haven't.

We don't wake up until morning tea, but that's fine. After finishing Naveen's machine we deserve a day off. Sometimes it's good being married to the boss. Of course, that's only when we wake up. We don't manage to leave the room until after eleven. What? We're both consenting adults. I swear I can see your blush, the way the sun's shining through the curtains right now. Moments like this I know you're still up there, somewhere, watching out for us. So thanks.

Joan and Tina are on the couch when we finally make it downstairs. Joan's cheeks are flushed, and Tina's very carefully looking anywhere but at us. Surely we didn't make _that_ much noise. I glance over my shoulder at Kristoff and he offers me a lop-sided, chagrined smile. Well, this is awkward.

"Mom, you didn't have to _say_ it." I can hear Kristoff facepalming behind me, and I swear if Tina goes any paler she's going to faint.

"We can neither confirm nor deny that what you heard is what you think you heard." At which point I facepalm, Joan throws her face against the cushions and Tina falls off the couch. Well done, Reindeer King. You just told them _exactly_ what happened.

It's going to be very difficult to salvage anything like my dignity from this, so I just leave. At least that can't make things any worse. I make myself a coffee. Ever since that entirely unrelated incident in 2021 I've only been allowed decaf. It's not like I really need the extra energy, even if I have problems trying to be a morning person. Now you, you were a morning person. I think that was the first breakthrough we made, right? Like the third or fourth morning I came to visit? Yeah, I'll tell Joan about it when Tina leaves this afternoon—teacher only day at school, the other reason her parents let her stay the night.

The rest of the day actually goes pretty well, it's a nice, lazy day for us, sitting on lawn chairs in the afternoon sun, watching Joan and Tina acting out a few scenes from their favourite movies. Dragons' still cracks me up, every time. Especially when Tina tries to ride Joan, both of them falling flat on their faces, laughing too hard to get up. I look away just a little, because Tina's brushing platinum hair out of my daughter's eyes, and I know what normally comes next—what came next with us. Joan mumbles something about never talking to her again if she kisses her in front of me. She does it anyway, sitting on Joan's chest like she just brought down some mighty beast. Joan's scowling and Tina's got a stupid grin plastered across her face. I can hear her triumphant whisper carried on the wind.

"Worth it."


	7. Mornings

The TV's on in the background, re-runs of The Simpsons on some channel or other. We've got it turned down anyway, because we're both in the kitchen. Me and Joan I mean. She's got her hair tied back in a bun, pinned up with a couple of chopsticks. It's a good look for her—so's the apron. She can cook better than me, and way better than you, but somehow Kristoff still has the edge over all of us. It's okay, we're baking a cake, because why not, right? Okay, fine, it _is_ for someone. Tina's still here, and Joan thought it would be a nice gesture. It's a jelly-crystal cake, strawberry, because that's what she likes—Tina, not Joan, though Joan doesn't mind.

Then the cake is in the oven, and Joan goes to sit with Tina. I let them have the couch, sitting in one of the armchairs towards the outside of the room. I've considered channel surfing, but right now it's pointless. Plus, it's that episode of The Simpsons where Homer's the 'Beer Baron'. It's still funny, all these years later. Maybe I never did manage to grow up properly like you wanted me to—but is that such a bad thing? No, wait, don't answer that.

Another episode, and then the timer on the oven rings. Cake's done. I take it out of the oven and leave it on the bench to cool. We've all been a little too eager for a slice, and burnt our tongues on molten jelly crystals before today. I remember that time you… which meant… god that was frustrating. For both of us. Anyway, cake, bench, cooling. Joan passes me at the kitchen door, already grabbing ingredients to make the icing. See, I wouldn't, but apparently Tina's never had a cake like this before—which we're fixing—so Joan wants to do the whole 'surprise filling' thing there.

I lounge back in my chair, looking over at Tina. She really is tiny, probably four foot nothing, slender as wishbones and matchsticks. According to Joan she eats like me, so no one knows why she's still so skinny. It's not… not an illness, not like you had. She's just skinny. She also wears her hair quite short, not even shoulder length. With her cut-off jeans and vest she looks every bit the tomboy Joan acts. Funny, really, considering she's the shy one in the relationship. I guess I can call it that now, given they're rather past the point of being just friends.

"Tina?"

"Yes, miss Bergman?"

"Did you enjoy your sleepover with Joan?"

"I–I did. I think I dreamed about waiting in a hospital room for Elsa—except she looked like Joan the other day. Umm, when she wore that awesome jacket to school."

I just smile at her, and she leans back against the cushions of the couch, watching the TV. Interesting that she dreamed of Elsa/Joan. Maybe her subconscious took what I was telling Joan and turned it into a funny little story for her. She'll learn the truth soon enough if Joan keeps relaying the story to her. I don't mind, not really, but Elsa, you're meant to be _ours_. We keep your memory, your legacy. I don't know if Joan and Tina will last—I hope they do, honestly, but it's just high school romances, you know? I don't want to see either of them getting hurt. Sometimes we just can't help it; and then sometimes we take the hurt so others don't have to.

"Is it… is it okay that Joan's telling me about Elsa?" I see the worry and embarrassment on her face, and it's easy to see why Joan likes her. She's adorable when she's flustered like that,

"It's okay," I nod slowly. "It's not some big secret—but it _is_ something you have to respect."

"I do, miss Bergman, I do. It's just… you loved her so much—she _had_ to be special." She's looking down at the floor, but she continues speaking. "I–I'd like to know why."

Joan chose that moment to walk back in, flopping down on the couch, surreptitiously licking icing off one finger. "So, what's everyone talking about?"

"Elsa," Tina replies quietly and Joan pats her on the back.

"It's okay to ask, Tink. I mean, you don't mind, right?" She's giving me a pointed look.

"I don't mind, but it would have been nice if you asked me first." She's got the grace to at least look chastised. I doubt she really is, and I really wasn't worried. Like I said, it's not some horrible secret. The silence is getting awkward, and Joan takes off into the kitchen, muttering something about cake. I push myself out of the chair, and then motion for Tina to follow me to the kitchen. It's time to take our cake for a test toast—taste. I mean taste.

It's good. Very good. Tina has two and a half slices, while Joan asks her where it's all going. She's quite interested when Joan tells her the secret ingredient is just jelly-crystals. She smiles like an idiot when it's revealed the cake was for her, made at Joan's bidding. She gives Joan a quick peck on the cheek, then huddles protectively over the cake when we try to take another slice. She tries to growl menacingly, but it's endearingly funny. I don't think she quite meant for it to come out like that.

It's getting late in the evening now, and Tina's parents have come round to collect her. She takes the cake we made for her, promising to share at least some of it, and I try to look away as she says goodbye to Joan with a hug and a little kiss. Sometimes it's hard to accept how fast my daughter's growing up. My teenage years are a bit hazy, but I can't remember feeling as lucky as Joan is. Maybe I did, though, and it's just my experiences later jaded those few early weeks with Hans. I still remember you though, and our first rocky weeks. I'm glad we made it through, I'm glad for everything we shared, and even though it's still sad, I can find solace in our time together—we had so much; we did so much… I just wish we'd had more time. If we had though, we might not have made those plans. We—me, you, and Kristoff—we might not have had a daughter. Even though it hurts to say it, I'd never trade for more time with you if it meant losing Joan. Never. I just hope you can understand why.

Later, sometime after dinner, we're both in Joan's room. I'm sitting at the foot of her bed, leaning back against the boards. She's sitting between my legs, and I've got my arms wrapped around her, my chin on her shoulder. We're both in shock a little.

"It's gonna be okay, baby," I whisper softly in her ear.

"Is it?" She sounds so unsure, and I hate it. So many questions, so many fears.

It was Tina. She's not allowed to see Joan. At least, that's most of what I got when her parents rang. I think she might have decided to come out—after all, she really does like Joan—but apparently her parents were not nearly as accepting as I am. I know why Joan's afraid. I've got a feeling she thinks this is somehow her fault, too. Tina's old enough to make her own choices. She's smart enough to make informed choices. But who you love… why you love them… it's not a choice. It just _is_. Joan likes other girls, and I'm fine with that. I only ever liked one other woman like that. I don't know what it was that made her so special that I'd be like that, but that's how life goes. It's messy. It's difficult. What we really need, sitting here, lost in our thoughts, is a distraction. I guess more of our story will work. Maybe things will be better after.

"The next day I saw Elsa in the afternoon again, I think it was a Friday… maybe…"

—∞—

I hobbled into the hospital room of my blonde goddess and took my place in the chair beside her bed. I remember passing a flower shop, but first off I didn't know what she liked, and secondly I had no idea if she'd actually appreciate the gesture. She might even have been allergic. I did bring a couple of apples though, fresh and clean. I took a bite out of mine, not saying anything. I wanted her to make the first move, to say something—anything—without having to be pushed. Eventually I offered her the apple.

"It's not poisoned or anything," it was a bad joke, but it's all I had. "It's got to be better than what passes for food here."

She sighed, taking the apple from my outstretched hand. I noticed how carefully she avoided actually touching me. I wasn't sure why, but it wasn't what I'd expected. She ate in silence, sitting up in the bed. I looked over, and with the angle I was on I could just see the top of her breast through the neck of the gown. I turned away, not knowing why I was blushing. I guess I was embarrassed for her—but that's what hospital gowns are like sometimes. She still had my jacket, spread out like an undersized blanket on top of her bed.

I threw our apple cores in the bin, then just sat beside her in silence. I wanted to talk, to say so much, but I couldn't seem to get my thoughts in order. She still said nothing, running a hand through her platinum hair, smoothing out some flyaways. Her breathing became slow and even, and at first I thought she was sleeping. Her eyes were open, and her body was relaxed. She was meditating. Then again, hospital room, broken leg; there really wasn't a whole lot she could do. I didn't say anything—I didn't want to interrupt her meditation. I might even have called what she was doing rude. But I wasn't going to try and break her meditation out of spite.

She simply might not have wanted me around. I mean, I was the cause of all her recent suffering. I was trying to get through to her, of course, but you can only go so far. I left, as quietly as I could manage. I looked back as I closed the door. Had she been crying this whole time? Had she been holding it in so I wouldn't see? But why? What was it making her so sad? What was it that had made her try to kill herself? I just didn't know. I _wanted_ to know, but those were questions I just couldn't ask. I had to respect her privacy.

I saw her again on Sunday morning. Well, I tried to, but that was when her next op had been scheduled. Fixing her leg was proving to be quite a task—complex compound fractures, and several sections completely shattered by the impact. They were putting in a titanium plate, screwing it to what was left of the bones. I went home, looking up information on what they were doing. It was by turns fascinating and gross. I think I pitied her then, knowing how hard her life was going to be, all the physio she would have to undertake as her leg healed. I hated myself. I was the cause of all of this, and no apology was going to make it right.

I asked Hans what to do. All he did was slap me, and tell me to try harder. I felt like I deserved it that time. I just wanted to do something to help this woman. Something that would never involve Hans. I had no idea of what she liked; what she didn't. I didn't even know if she liked me, or was just putting up with me because it was helping me. Not knowing was slowly driving me to distraction. I resolved to be there early on Monday morning. I wanted some answers, and god willing, I was going to get them.

Honestly, she looked terrible. Aftereffects of the anesthesia and poor sleep. I had to say something. Anything.

"Are you alright? You look terrible—I mean, like you've been through hell and I can't get the words right and I think you're beautiful anyway and—wait, what?"

"You think I'm beautiful?" Damn it, but she sounded so shy and uncertain. It wasn't cold and distant either, it was like she was daring to hope. For what, I wasn't sure, but it _was_ there. I was a little taken aback, actually. I couldn't take back what I'd said, even if maybe I hadn't meant to say it. It was true.

"Yes. I think you're beautiful. Under everything. You don't have to look fantastic to be beautiful, you just are."

"Thank you."

We just sat in silence for a little while after that, but it wasn't awkward. I knew now that she didn't just want to be rid of me. She didn't hate me—or at least not as much as I'd expected her to for practically destroying her life. I felt something brush against my shoulder and I jumped. I turned just in time to see a pale, slender hand retreating towards the bed. Had I just scared her off? She looked quite apprehensive, so I tried to take her hand. She got to the covers first, but she noticed what I was doing.

"It's okay," I told her. "You just surprised me."

I dragged the chair a little closer to the bed—hard to do with a slowly healing broken ankle, but I managed—and I left my hand free. I felt something soft and warm against my palm, and I dared to look. We were holding hands. Such a simple thing it's sometimes hard to appreciate what it means. Time passed, I can't remember how much, and then she quietly asked me to leave. I asked if it was okay to come back tomorrow morning, and she nodded slowly.

She looked better, more put together on Tuesday. I'd also dressed up a little, or maybe down. I was wearing an off the the shoulder dress, pale green. It was perhaps a little more revealing than was decent—or at least my idea of decent—but I knew Hans liked it when I wore it. So did Kristoff, when I'd worn it to the Christmas party. I didn't know quite how much my beautiful mystery woman was going to appreciate it; or even if she would notice it at all.

I _still_ didn't know her name. The doctors, I guess, must have, but I didn't, because she hadn't seen fit to tell me. I don't think what we had even amounted to friendship. Not yet, anyway. I finished pinning up my hair, and Hans grabbed me in a sort of appreciative way, telling me I was being a very good girl making my amends to this woman. As Hans let me go—with a playful little smack—I wondered how I'd feel if it was _her_ doing that.

Her?

I don't know what I was thinking, but that might have been what started it. Or maybe I'd been thinking like that for a while, but I just couldn't see it. Maybe that was why I wanted to keep Hans away from her. Maybe that was why I felt such a deep connection to her. They say we don't get to choose who we fall in love with, only how we show them. And her, my mystery woman… I wanted to show her she was the most amazing person in the world. Because to me, then, she was. We hadn't even shared more than a dozen words, and I was falling for her. Falling hard.

"Hi," I waved shyly as I entered her room. It was a bit late to make a first impression—my bike actually did a number on that count—but I still hoped to make a _good_ impression.

She smiled. She smiled at me, and waved back just as shyly. I guess this was new territory for both of us. I hadn't even made it to my chair before she spoke. She spoke _first_.

"You look beautiful today."

I could only smile at her. She had noticed the effort I'd made, and I really appreciated that. "You look beautifuller."

Oh god. What was I even saying?

"I mean, not fuller, but more beautiful."

She laughed, happy, amused at how flustered I was. "Thank you."

I managed to regain some dignity by sitting down as gracefully as possible, resting my crutches beside the chair. I figured I would be there for a while today.

"I–I don't even know your name…" I hoped she might give me an answer.

"I hadn't thought to ask yours." Not what I'd been expecting. She actually sounded a little embarrassed.

I offered her that shy little wave again. "I'm Anna."

"Isabella." She wasn't looking at me as she spoke; she actually seemed a little distracted.

"Isabella," I was testing the name out, it fit her, but it wasn't perfect. I saw her hand pressing against her leg through the sheets on the bed. "Are you okay?"

"My leg hurts. It's very sore." I can't repeat what she said next, because I don't know Norwegian. What I do know, what she told me later, was that she hoped I never learned the meaning of any of those words.

"I–I can go, if that's easier?"

"No, Anniken, stay. Please?"

"Anniken?"

"Anna," she shook her head, as if she was trying to clear it. "Will you stay?"

"I will." I promised. I never knew what that idle promise would cost me—or all it would give me. All I knew was that it was all I could do for Isabella. That's how most of my mornings went for the next week. When I was healed enough to start work again—at least some light duty stuff in the workshop—I asked for a few mornings off. Kristoff only asked why once. He knew how responsible I felt, and how hard I was trying to make amends. He said I'd done more than enough, but I wasn't convinced. It felt like she was hiding something from me, and I couldn't be sure it wasn't because of what I'd done to her.

—∞—

Joan shifted against me, turning to look me in the eyes. "You di–you didn't know? I mean, that you liked auntie Elsa?"

"No, I didn't." And I smile down at our beautiful daughter. I really wish you could have seen her. Well, I guess you have; you're up there somewhere, watching over us. Spare a thought for Tina too, she could use the support. "Now come on missy, it's past your bedtime."

"But Tina…" I can hear the cracks in her voice.

"We have to give her parents time." I don't tell her what they said to me. What they accused me of—what they accused her of. It's not our choice who we love, only how we show them. "Tina probably needs some time too, so be careful when you see her again, okay?"

"Okay mom, but how much time?"

"As long as it takes. You can be patient, right?" I smile at her. "Remember how long I said I'd love Elsa for?"

"Until the end of time."

"I still do. If that's how long it takes, that's how long it takes. But I don't think her parents can stay mad for more than a couple of years."

"Years?!"

I tuck her in gently. "They'll get over it, eventually."


	8. Strife

I think I'm getting old. Well, at least the mirror seems to be telling me that. You'd still think I was beautiful though, and I have to smile at the thought. Kristoff still finds me attractive too—one of the many reasons we're still together. You were right about him too, he's a much better person than either of us ever thought, once you get past his shell. You probably want to know why the mirror's saying I'm old? Yeah, I think I found a wrinkle—and what do you mean just the one?! I remember your sense of humour too. I miss you, Elsa. Oh, hey, you'd probably like my skunk-stripe, which I now swear is Joan's fault from everything she goes through at fencing practice; at school; with her friends. God, life's not easy sometimes.

That scar—you know the one—it still itches sometimes. If the knife had hit me slightly differently, if it glanced off my rib, well, you might never have seen me again. I hate to think about it, but it's true. I don't know what saved me; but after… you saved me, and I guess I saved you too. Why am I even thinking about all this during my shower time? Because I'm nearly there in telling Joan the story. I can only remember one more morning, and it wasn't a good one, and then _I_ disappeared and _you_ worried.

I wash my hair twice, then run the conditioner through it. It's as long as you'd remember it, and I'm still damn careful at work. It's always pinned up and back, out of the way. Everyone still questions why I take such long showers—though I swear Joan still takes longer. It's my downtime, the rush of water, the white noise just makes it a moment, something clear and simple, and I stand under the shower head where it's warmest. It's a moment in time, I don't have to think, or act. It's… meditative, I guess is the right word. It's one of the few places I can truly clear my mind. I'm learning to appreciate the way that you could do that was something special.

When I'm dry enough—by which I mean I'm not leaving puddles behind when I walk—I throw on a robe and walk out into the master bedroom. Dry my hair, brush it, then I wonder if I should braid it again or just leave it for the morning. I'm thinking morning. I throw myself onto the bed, still wearing my robe. I land hard enough that it slips open a little and Kristoff reaches over, pulling it closed again. He's a good guy, and he could honestly have me any time he wanted—or I wanted—but things don't always line up. Oh, sure, we do try to, but sometimes plans fall through, and other times we're just too tired after a hard day's work.

Our bodies' needs don't always line up with those of our emotions. We try to make it match, but it'll never be 100%. I'm not sure I want it to be either. Sometimes its nice only having to be responsible for myself, and to myself. I think Kristoff feels the same way. We don't talk about it much, because it doesn't happen much, but it does happen. And yes, sometimes when we're not in the mood to participate, we'll still help. I think I've been caught out a few times, but maybe I _like_ the idea of getting caught sometimes. What, you think that time you walked in on me was an _accident_ , Elsa? Okay, mostly, yeah, because I didn't expect you home so damn early, and maybe I was a little too, ahem, focused on the task at hand to hear the door.

I'm blushing now, and smiling, because I can just see the mortified—yet very curious—look on your face. You were adorable. And I think that's probably enough of that. One last thing, though: Phil's hosting a tournament, foot and mounted, with the other SCA crowds around the city. Joan's entering as a foot combatant—and as part of the grand melee. Junior category for both, of course. Not for another couple of months yet, but training's going to get intense. Help me keep her safe.

Now Wednesday's turning into a whole lot of averageness. I mean, sure, hump day and all, but there's been nothing exciting going on all day. Even the summer heat's going, but I still have to swipe an arm across my forehead every now and then. It's getting quite warm under the bed I'm welding into this machine. Stainless plate, folded edges. The old bed—or the welds on the old bed—cracked and broke, and there's enough holes in the thing they just want to get a new one—redo the entire thing from scratch. That's my day, pretty much of all it, cramped, uncomfortable, and with only my welding torch for company until it's break time.

Audrey's here too, and she really gets along with the guys. God, she's as rough and tumble as they are half the time, and she doesn't bat an eyelid at some of the jokes. Sure, they're funny, but sometimes I'm glad they're not all looking at me. I mean, not like _that_ , but… damn, I just can't find the right words. We get done a bit before our usual time, so we just help the guys give their workshop a good clean. Everyone appreciates a clean workshop.

As I pull into the driveway I remember I got a text while driving home. It's Joan—Tina's there, and I know it's against her parent's wishes. There's no good answer here, and I'm trying to decide on the best course of action. No matter what happens I'm going to end up betraying someone's trust; and no matter what, someone is going to be getting into a whole heap of trouble. I have the job of deciding who that is. Well, at least my day isn't average anymore. Woo freakin' hoo.

Wait, Kristoff's home too—he should've done something. Something responsible. He has to have. In the front room Joan's sitting rigidly on the couch, staring blankly at the door I just walked through. Tina's sitting there just as stiffly. _Kristoff, you_ idiot _. Too responsible_. Then again, maybe it _is_ the right thing. Joan's going to hate us. Us. I won't let Kristoff take all the blame for this. Tina can hate us too, if she wants. The Belafonts though, they might actually trust us. Not a good trade, but it might be a step in the right direction. A costly one.

I can hear a car skidding into our driveway, and hurried, angry steps. The door opens and standing there is—holy shit. Weaselly—I mean Westley—Belafont. Makes a bit more sense now. Time has not been kind to the man, and I have to cover my mouth lest he see me laughing at his blatantly obvious toupee. It's not even a good one. I… I'm not sure how he managed to get a wife. I wondered why that voice on the phone sounded oddly familiar the other day. Weasel—Westley. Westley, he grabs Tina roughly by the arm, hauls her up from the couch and practically drags her to the door. I step up, standing in his way. It's clear I'm not the same person I was eighteen years ago.

"Don't you _dare_ hurt her."

"I won't lay a finger on her." It's all bluster. He's not used to people standing up against him. Used to think his money could solve every—huh, maybe that's how he got a wife.

"Weasel—Westley," I mumble an apology so quick I doubt he noticed it. "That's not what I said."

"I'm not going to harm my daughter. My own flesh and blood."

"Then maybe you should stop trying to drag her through my house. Give her some dignity. She's been busted, she knows it, and running away won't help matters."

Tina glares at me, and I'm sure Joan's trying to light me on fire with her mind, but Westley drops Tina's arm, escorting her onto the porch.

"And Westley, just because you can't trust your daughter doesn't mean I don't!" I have to shout, he's already back to his car. Last year's something or other, fancy sedan thing. I don't care for it.

"Mom, Why?!"

"Because sometimes life just sucks," and I collapse into one of the armchairs by the sofa. My voice is a lot softer when I can speak again. "You know I didn't want to do that, right?"

"I could see it all over your face while you helped dad sell her out!"

"Joan, please. Not now." Sometimes I hate being a parent. I have to be the bad guy, and when that happens—when I just need a moment to get over that kind of system shock, I can't find my center. Now I'm afraid if Joan says one more thing I'll explode at her instead of the people that deserve it. The tension's too much and I jump with fright when I feel a hand against my shoulder, strong and firm. I think Joan said something, because she's storming off, but I guess Kristoff got to me just in time. I let out a tense little sigh. At least I haven't done anything terminally stupid. Joan deserves an explanation, but… later. When we've all calmed down.

"Okay Reindeer King, you think that was really the best move?" Yeah, maybe I'm still a little angry—but it's not like I meant to throw it in his face.

"Just take a deep breath, Anna. It's not the end of the world." Uh oh, he just used my name, no feistypants, no dear. I think I went too far.

"No, it's not." There's a pregnant pause, and it's like I could pluck the tension from the air. "I…"

"Deep breath, you'll be okay." Um, what? Did I miss something? I must have.

I take that deep breath, let it out. Another. Trying to let go of my anger and tension. "I didn't really hear what Joan said when she stormed off."

"How could you not hear that?" But he's not angry, he's confused. I can tell when I turn to look at him. "I'd swear the neighbours heard it. Across the road."

"That bad, huh?"

"Let's just say it doesn't bear repeating, except for the part where she never wants to see us again." Well, that would explain why Kristoff was trying to reassure me. It's not like Joan—not like her at all. I'll give her some space, it's not like she'd try to run—crap. I'm halfway up the stairs before Kristoff realizes what's going on. I skid to a halt in front of Joan's room, using the door handle as an anchor to stop myself. I can't hear anything from inside. Double crap. If she was sulking at least I'd hear some music or something. Door's locked, of course. There's a jingle from downstairs, and I almost fall down the stairs to the ground floor. I hear an engine revving by the time I get to the door—why did we think it was a good idea for her to get driving lessons over summer?

Kristoff reaches the door just as Joan's speeding down the street, tyres screeching against the asphalt. He puts a hand out and just kind of sags against the door frame.

"Shit." Deadpan. Eloquently put, Reindeer King, and I roll my eyes.

Joan's out there, in our car, it's dark, and she hasn't done much night driving. I'm worried for her. No, I'm terrified of what might happen if something goes wrong. If I get _that_ call. I can't let that happen. Then another factor pops up. She took off heading east. The Belafont's place is to the east. Oh, this is _so_ not good. I run into the garage, grabbing my helmet and my leathers. I toss the van keys to Kristoff—the van's here becau—doesn't matter, it's here, so we can cover more ground. Now I have an idea of my daughter's plan it's even worse, because if something happens she's not the only one at risk. I'd feel responsible if anything happened to them. It's a desperate move on her part, almost clichéd, really, but some things just don't change.

I think that's our car ahead, and I'm chasing taillights. I wish I had some way to bring Kristoff in on this, but I left my phone at home. Bad idea anyway. Need like a helmet radio or something. Wait, something just pulled out of the Belafont's driveway—station wagon. There's a flash of platinum in the rear view mirror. I have to admire my daughter; smart enough to switch cars. Damn it, she's got your brains Elsa. Why? Why would you curse me like this? Oh, look, there's Tina. Both of you young ladies are in so much trouble.

We hit downtown, and even on my bike I lose them in the cross traffic. I find an empty space on the side of the road and pull into it, turning my bike off. I have to think Joan actually planned this. She managed to get away too quickly, and it was like Tina was waiting for her. Which is really unhelpful right now, because I've just lost my daughter—our daughter—and only child to a simple act of disobedience. Please let her be okay. She has to be okay. She has to be, because when I find her, I'll kill her myself.

I'm hyperventilating on the sidewalk, trying to take all this in. I've gotta sit down before my legs collapse. I'm losing it. I feel so small and alone right now; I feel like an absolute failure. I forced her out. I wasn't even paying attention when she stormed off. I mean… would I have realized? Would I have known? Was she waiting for me to race up the stairs so she could raid the keys from the kitchen? I'm impressed, and appalled, and really, really scared. She's only fifteen, out there, in the world. I wasn't ready at fifteen. I don't think she is either.

I check my watch. It's taken me about quarter of an hour to pull myself together. Enough that I trust myself to drive home, defeated. Kristoff's there, on the phone, giving someone an earful. Belafont—but I don't hear Tina's name. It's like the universe hates me tonight. Better check my phone—maybe the battery died. That'd be just perfect. I pick it up, checking for messages. Several, from Kristoff, trying to call me home. One, from Joan. Three minutes old. Shaking like a leaf, I sit at the table.

_I'm safe._

I don't know why I was crying, or how long, but Kristoff walks in, sees it, and pulls me into the warmest hug I can remember in a long time. I show him the message and I can see his relief, too. I'm too shattered to even think about food, but I'm not going to protest the hot chocolate he presses into my unresisting hands. The mug is nice and warm, and I have to smile for him. We'll get through this. We're no good to anyone right now, but we'll be better in the morning. I can sleep—I'm exhausted after the events of this evening—but I'm still so scared for Joan. Kristoff wraps his arms around me, and the fears can't get to me for a while. Long enough for me to drift off and pray I don't get nightmares.

I wake up at 3am. I look at the messages on my phone.

_I'm safe._

It's enough.


	9. Shattered

 

 

**Trigger Warnings for Attempted Suicide**

* * *

Saturday. It's now the third day Joan's been gone, but I'm not so worried anymore. She's told me she's safe—and I called in a favour with Lefou to track her phone. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I wanted to be sure. She's my only daughter, and I can't lose her. It's not like I'd get a second chance at parenthood either. With what Hans did to me, with my past, a lot of people asked why we didn't have children. I'll just come out and say that the problems weren't his.

I've spent the last three days trying not to worry, and failing pretty horribly. Kristoff's been there for me, and it's been him that's stopped me from haring off after Joan at every opportunity. Like trying to nab her after school—because I didn't get any calls telling me she was absent, I had to assume she'd gone. I tried following her, but Kristoff caught me. She needs space. She needs to realize what it is we're trying to do. Tried to do; with Tina. The way it's turned out, I'm going to call that evening an unmitigated disaster. At least they're both safe.

I've said in the past I have my suspicions about those two, now they're out there, presumably staying together, with limited options for entertainment. I wonder if they've been using each other for entertainment. I wonder if they've done that before. Under my own roof, no less. But I won't pry—too much. And when I haven't been worrying about Joan, I've been plotting about how punish her. Oh, yes, I have plans and plots and schemes and layers of evil ideas. Well, unpleasant for her, at least.

I won't take away her regular fencing night—that would be unfair—but I'm seriously thinking about banning her from the tournament and the melee. I won't stop her from seeing Tina—mostly because I can't. I can, however, make her more careful. Then there are the chores she'll be landed with. And removing most of the technology from her room. She can earn those back with good behaviour. Hmm… not sure what else, really, but I'll think of somethin—oh. Driving. No more driving, at least for a while. Even though we got the car back—and the Belafonts somehow got theirs back too—it's just… well, nobody should try stealing their parents' car.

It's still pretty dark right now, and checking the clock it's only about 6am. Waaaay too early for me to be awake, but there must be a reason. I'm not sure if I was dreaming, but I thought I heard something downstairs last night. Maybe I did dream it, because I can only remember the time you came back came back so very late one night, Elsa, and then you crashed on the couch, too tired to drag your lazy butt up the stairs. But I'm out of bed now, and in the hall the hardwood floor is cold against my bare feet while the morning chill cuts right through my chemise. Maybe I should've pulled on my gown, but something's pulling me to the stairs.

I can hear something coming from the living room. Rough sounding but rhythmic breathing—snoring, actually. But Kristoff's still upstairs, so I ball my hands into fists, and grab the nearest blunt object to have at the intruder. Intruders. Sleeping on our couch. Short, dark hair, and flashes of platinum gold. Yup, she's snoring—but that may be because she's trying to use her friend as a blanket, and honestly, that pose cannot be comfortable.

I fall back into the nearest chair, letting whatever it was I took fall to the floor. Huh, yesterday's rolled up paper. Sure, that would've been really effective—if our intruder was a disobedient pet. I let out a sigh of relief, because now I know Joan's safe, and it's kinda funny seeing her use Tina as a blanket—but oh, they are in so much trouble when they wake up. We're gonna have to take Tina home, but after breakfast, because that's fair, right? Then me and Kristoff are going to have a long talk with Joan about responsibility and the consequences of her actions.

And later, much later, when I've calmed down, I'll tell her about the time I had to take responsibility for my actions—for the fact I didn't leave Hans for so many years. You gave me the push, Elsa, and maybe that makes you the hero of the piece. It certainly does to me, so that's how I'm going to tell it, even with that argument we had beforehand.

Platinum hair goes flying as Joan bolts awake.

"Gah!" I can only watch as she both brushes her shoulder and—I'm not sure if it's accidental or not—turfs Tina onto the floor. "Mom?"

Tina lands with a heavy thud, looking up and glaring at my daughter. "What the hell was that for?"

"You were drooling on me." Fair enough. "Again." What?

I clear my throat, and Tina turns to look at me. "Oh, hi miss Bergman. Um…"

"You two young ladies are in a whole heap of trouble—but, I'll let you have breakfast before I march you in front of the firing squad." I stand, heading for the stairs. "I'm getting my robe. You both better still be here when I get back."

They are, and Kristoff's still upstairs, pulling on some pants. When in bed, he's a strong believer in the idea that clothes are optional. So am I, most nights, and it's nice to snuggle up next to him, but it was a little chilly last night. Anyway, Joan and Tina are in the dining room, carefully avoiding my gaze as they take great spoonfuls of cereal in. The toaster pops in the kitchen. I get the feeling they didn't eat too well while they were away. I also suspect that Joan may have run through what was left of her allowance—because according to Lefou's information, they weren't staying at some low-rent motel.

"Joan," I speak softly, because it's much better at getting attention than shouting in cases like this. She turns to look at me, shame faced. "You realize you're pretty much grounded for the rest of your life, right?"

Joan hangs her head, staring intently into her bowl of coco-pops. Tina shuffles a little closer to her.

"You're not getting off scot-free either, miss Belafont," and I fix her with my best attempt at a stern gaze. "Your mother was so worried about you. So was your father. They are going to decide your punishment."

"But… but what if they say I can never see Joan again?"

"Honestly, they can't," I chew thoughtfully on another spoonful of cereal, then continue. "You two go to the same school. You walk past each other's houses. You have phones. Computers. It would be impossible to stop you seeing each other unless your dad decided to up stakes and move out of the country. And cut off all your internet and phone services. All he can really do is limit how much you see Joan."

"You're not… mad… at me?" I honestly didn't see the point of being mad at Tina, or at Joan, because it was Tina's father, damn Weaselly—Westley. Westley! Belafont that was the problem. Archaic thinking, really, given the world we live in. I don't have any problem with Joan being a lesbian—or exploring that side of her sexuality first. I can sort of understand Westley's issues, but it's hard to fathom given how inclusive and tolerant my friends are. It's like being on a different planet, really. And Tina's still looking at me, expecting an answer. Oops.

"No, Tina, I'm not mad at you. Or at Joan—but what you both did was wrong. I'm angry at that. I'm angry at how you've acted, not who you are. And it was Elsa that first taught me that distinction, by being angry at me for what I let myself suffer, but not at the person I'd become. I guess you both probably think you were running away for the right reasons—and maybe, maybe you were."

"But stealing our cars was wrong," Kristoff put in from the door, walking through to the kitchen. "Worrying your mothers half to death was worse. Miss Belafont, you do not want to know how many calls I got from your mother while I was at work yesterday. Joan, you don't want to know what I had to do to stop princess feistypants over there from dragging you back after school on Thurs—"

"Thank you so much, Reindeer King." Yeah, real mature, I know. Gimme a break, it's early, and I've gotta defuse the tension in me somehow. It's not going to be an easy day for any of us.

"Anyway," Kristoff just plowed on, ignoring the dig. "We have had a very busy week. No charges relating to vehicle theft have been laid—Tina, you'll need to talk to officer Erikson about that one before you go home. You didn't do anything illegal, just reckless, and maybe a little bit stupid."

"Did you just call me stupid?" Joan stares daggers at her father as he pops into the kitchen.

"Maybe." And then he's gone, and I hear something banging around with the pans. It mostly muffles an indignant shriek from my daughter. Mostly. Tina just gives her a look. Then she goes back to gorging on our cereals. Yeah, I think I may need to teach them about the importance of shopping for the necessities. Later. Much later. When all this has blown over.

* * *

We dropped Tina back home a little while ago, and I gave Westley a short but pointed speech about what would happen if I found out he'd tried to hurt Tina instead of merely disciplining her. I'm not really sure he got the message, but his wife was all tears and hugs when she came out to the door and saw Tina standing there, looking very meek and apologetic. We got back home without incident, and true to my word I've locked out most of the tech in Joan's room, amongst other things. Of course she doesn't think it's fair, but I've already given my reasons.

I'm sprawled out on the couch, and Joan's in one of the armchairs, trying to keep her distance. Yeah, it stings, but I know she can't keep it up for long. Just like you, just before Hans did what you predicted he would. I hate that you were so right about him—that you forced me to see everything that I could have done, and why I didn't. Back then I didn't know that those stirrings I felt were the beginnings of love, true love, even. All I knew was that you made me happy, and that I wanted to protect you. I didn't care so much about myself so long as you were safe. I was an idiot—and you told me as much when you saw me after, and all I could do was laugh which as I recall quite charmed you.

Anyway, getting sidetracked. Just because Joan's been bad doesn't mean I'm going to stop telling her our story. I mean, if she's still willing to hear it right now.

"Joan?"

"Yes." Her reply is about as curt as it's possible to be without trying to be insulting.

"Do you want to hear more about auntie Elsa?"

She looks at me blankly, blinking once or twice as her mind processes what I've just said. Rabbit in the headlights. She can't believe what she's hearing, and I can see that written all over her face. Then she schools her features into a neutral expression, and she answers me in a small voice. "Yes."

"I can't remember what day our last morning meeting was on, before the attack. It might have been a Tuesday," I give Joan a little look, making sure she's paying attention. "Honestly, the whole week is a blur, from the drugs, and the surgery, and the time in the recovery ward. I'll always remember the argument though."

—∞—

I'd come in that morning bearing some new bruises that my choice of dress didn't manage to hide once I'd taken off my jacket. Perhaps wearing a sleeveless dress wasn't my best decision ever—or maybe it was, because Isabella finally saw what Hans was really doing to me. I'm not sure how I felt about that—maybe I was proud of my scars. Proud of all the marks he was leaving on me, because even though they hurt, they were also proof I was alive.

The cut of my dress was actually quite low—daring, even, for me anyway. Somehow the 'v' on the front of Isabella's hospital gown seemed lower too. I didn't notice at the time she'd pulled the back collar up to manage that. I wasn't even sure it was deliberate on her part. It was on mine though. I wanted her to see me, not just my body, but the real me—who I wanted to be—and I wasn't sure why. I'd thought about her, and what it might be like to kiss her, but beyond that, aside from being there while she healed, I hadn't given it that much extra thought. I only wanted to be there because I felt responsible. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

I was sitting in the chair next to Isabella's bed again, my crutches lying on the floor between us. I stopped using them as much, able to rest most of my weight on that ankle now. I could walk with a limp, and in a few days I was sure I'd be back at work with Kristoff and Audrey. Little things that I could look forward to. I reached into my satchel and withdrew a pair of orange fruits, tangerines. I placed them on the table next to Isabella's bed.

"I'm not sure what you like, but I got you a couple of tangerines, because I hear citrus fruits are really good for your health."

"Better than the food here," and she smiled, reaching over to pick one up. I could see down the front of her gown, and honestly, I quite liked what I saw. I hoped my blush wasn't showing when she turned to look at me. It must have been, because she fixed me with a hard gaze, her own cheeks becoming slightly flushed.

"Why do you let him hurt you?" Now that I had not been expecting. Such a direct accusation—even implying getting hurt was my fault. Did she think I wanted any of this?

"I don't let him do anything." That came out so wrong. It sounded like I was defending Hans, not myself.

"So you like it when he hurts you?"

"What?" I stared at her, not believing what I was hearing. "No. I hate it. I hate it every time he does it!"

"But you stay with him, silly girl." She was implying I was stupid. Naive, maybe, but not stupid.

"I'm not an idiot. What he's doing is wrong, but I can't get out."

"No, you don't _want_ to get out." It was the most accusing tone I'd ever heard. Everything here was my fault, somehow. To her, I just didn't want to see it. Couldn't she see how _trapped_ I was?

"You don't know hard it is!"

"No," her voice dripped with sarcasm. "I've never known what it's like to be alone. To lose hope. To want to die."

I just stared at her, seething with anger.

"Anniken, if he thinks you're getting out of his control, he'll kill you."

I said possibly the stupidest, most spiteful thing that ever came out of my mouth. "My bike _should_ have killed you. Then I wouldn't have this problem!"

"If you hate me so much, then _leave_." She didn't shout, but it was the most forceful whisper I ever heard.

I did leave. Nurses scrambled past me, to her room, calming her down I guess. I just went home—and that was dumber than arguing with Isabella. One shot at a new friendship, and I'd let it blow up in my face. I didn't hate her. I wanted to run back and say sorry—but I knew the words wouldn't come out right. I had to tell Hans I'd screwed up, that I needed a second chance to make right with Isabella. I sat heavily on the old couch, dragging my laptop over and checking my emails. All junk. I closed the laptop and tossed it onto an empty cushion. I needed something I could really vent my frustration on.

We argued through the afternoon and into the evening. To say dinner was tense would be like calling the ocean damp. He hit me, several times. It hurt, and he wasn't holding back, but this time it wasn't breaking my resolve. It was breaking my heart—and breaking the cage that held all of my anger. Everything I'd held back for so many years, repressed, hidden, seething and festering anger. My rage was incandescent, fuelled by the knowledge I no longer had anything to lose. There was one last thing I could do, and it would hurt Hans so badly it might destroy him. It wasn't like anyone else would miss me afterwards.

I took the sharpest knife I could find, and with my right hand, stabbed it as deeply as I could into my left wrist. I didn't feel anything, but I could certainly see the fear and uncertainty on Hans's face giving way to horror. That's right, watch me die. It's what you always wanted you _monster_. I was dragging the knife down my arm, the pain so intense I was gasping for breath when he came at me again. He managed to knock the knife loose, putting one hand around my wrist, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was a futile effort.

I had a moment of utter clarity, with Hans so very close to me. I took hold of his wrist, then I slammed it against the edge of the counter, hearing the most awful, terrible, satisfying crack. I was aghast at what I'd done, Hans standing there, cradling his wrist as the knowledge sunk for both of us that I was the stronger person. Dying, bleeding, but still stronger than him. He was fit, and a health freak. But I had a powerful, wiry kind of strength. Moving large chunks of steel on a daily basis will do that for you.

He grabbed a knife from the block, the biggest he could think of. He was going to kill me. No! If I died, I wanted him to suffer, watching it happen, being powerless. I stepped back. My foot slipped, weight falling on my bad ankle. I felt cold steel puncture something vital, then my side lit on fire and I screamed—but not loud enough to drown out the sirens. Something clattered on the floor of the kitchen, and I could hear running footsteps, growing more and more distant. I was lying in a pool of something warm and sticky, and my arms felt really fuzzy. I could hardly move my left hand. The sticky stuff was red.

Blood.

My blood.

It wasn't supposed to be outside me. Hans was supposed to see all of it.

I was hurt. I wanted to hurt him.

By dying?

Knife.

Pain.

Darkness. Blinking.

Isabella.

Darkness. Pain. Floating. Rough hands. A muffled voice down a tinny pipe. A familiar beeping noise. Grey's Anatomy? Lefou. Knowing Gaston was secretly gay. Isabella. Kisses. Darkness.

I had to open my eyes slowly, everything was so bright.

"He–hey," a vaguely familiar voice. "You're awake."

I blinked at the light, trying to raise my arm to shield my face. I felt a lot of wires and tubes dragging on my arm, then a hand pressed gently against my wrist and elbow.

"Try not to move too much." I knew that voice. I turned slowly because my head felt larger than the earth. And fluffy, like a giant marshmallow. I could see blond hair out of the corner of my eyes.

"Isabella?" And that was stupid, because it was a masculine voice, but for some reason I wanted it to be her.

"Unless she's 6'2" and weighs two-twenty pounds, I doubt it."

"Kristoff?"

"God, you had us worried for a while there feistypants." I felt him pat my shoulder. "I knew you'd pull through; you're a fighter."

That's right, I was hurt. I had been stabbed—by Hans. Hans! Had they caught him? Surely he couldn't weasel his way out of this, officer or not. I must have been thinking out loud, because Kristoff answered my questions and statements in order.

"You had a punctured lung and a fractured rib, along with severe internal bleeding—you're fucking lucky, because that knife missed your heart by less than an inch." He looked pointedly at my wrist, all bandaged up. My shoulders drooped—he had to know what I'd tried to do.

"I don't feel lucky. Head's all fuzzy. Feel kinda light."

"Painkillers, but they'll wear off. The doctors say you should be okay in a few days." He took my hand, the one with less wires, and I felt my fingers curl into his, a sign of friendship; solidarity. "They caught Hans two days ago. He's going away for a very long time—the doctors here remember what you looked like after the crash—and then the next afternoon."

"Good." It was really all I could say. I couldn't think of much else, except that I was happy to see justice get around to kicking him in the nuts. Hans deserved everything the prison system had in store for him.

"And Isabella says she's sorry." What? "I think she likes you." Again, what? "Like that."

I tried to sit up, and Kristoff only just managed to hold me down, a hand against each shoulder. I tried to take deep, calming breaths, but it was kind of difficult. Shallower breaths worked, but then I was hyperventilating.

"Whoa, slow down before you faint." I managed to calm myself enough to think sort of clearly about things.

"How… how long asleep?"

"Four days, three surgeries. Lefou watched over you when I couldn't. I know we can trust him. Audrey's been holding down the fort, and she would have come tomorrow, but her sister's recovering from her last fight. It's Sunday right now"—he looked at the clock on the wall—"yeah, it's been Sunday for about half an hour now."

Something in my messed up brain finally started working. "They let you stay?"

"They couldn't find any next of kin—not with Hans being the monster he is—but I was your I.C.E. contact. Y'know, I thought you were joking when you said you'd done that. Maybe Lefou, or someone who knew you better. They also didn't want to leave you alone." He looked pointedly towards my wrist again. I would be paying for that for a long time. I'd damn well tried to kill myself. Worse—I'd tried to make someone else watch, monstrous as they might have been. I was rational enough to know I'd been both very stupid and very lucky. Especially if Kristoff was allowed to stay—and there was a reason I'd made him my I.C.E. contact.

"You big dummy," I tried half-heartedly thumping him but he grabbed my arm before it could move more than a couple of inches. He held it effortlessly. I didn't let my fear show.

"Anna, he can't get you anymore." And he laid my arm down as gently as possible, brushing his fingertips against the crook of my elbow. I shuddered and drew away, and he apologized: "I'm sorry." But I laughed a little, because it actually tickled when he did that. Laughing was not a good idea.

"Ow. Please don't make me laugh." I could already see the joke he was trying so hard not to unleash on me. "Run. Run!"

He ran out into the hallway, told the nearest person he could, and got slapped. Unfortunately for me that was even funnier, and I simply could not hold back the laughter. Never had I been so happy and so hurt at the same time. I was stupid. Isabella had been right about Hans. Had maybe been right about me too—because lying there, in pain from laughing, I asked myself why I hadn't had the courage to stop Hans before. Why the dam didn't break until that night.

It wasn't just because I'd lost hope. It was because I'd found it. I had been so afraid of being alone, I hadn't really considered that what was being done to me might be worse. Being alone was my worst fear. Ever since my parents died I'd been terrified of being alone. That's why I married Hans. That's why I couldn't leave him. I'd been willing to die rather than be alone. But now—now I had hope. I had someone to live for. I might have ruined her life, but she had just given mine back to me. I needed to thank her for that.

Isabella. I didn't know her last name, or her favourite colour, or even what she considered a fun evening—but now she meant the world to me. It was dark, and late, and my head was getting heavy. Tired. But it was a happy kind of tired. I'd ask if I could see her in the morning. Use my phone for a video message if I couldn't. I smiled, a dopey, painkiller enhanced, but happy smile. Tired, but happy. I was content just to lie on the pillow, close my eyes, and sleep. Everything else could wait.


	10. Haunted

Joan took that last part of the story about as well as can be expected, I guess. She knows Hans put me in pretty bad place, and she knows he abused me—at least, parts of it—but I'd generally given her the sanitized version. The big fight, yes, but not what I'd done before, or how badly Hans had injured me. Suddenly she's hugging me, and then she's sitting against the far end of the couch, looking a little… sheepish, I think. I hold out my left wrist, tracing the scar there for her to see. It's not that visible anymore, but if it catches the light just right. Or if she runs her finger down it like she's doing, she can feel it.

I can feel the slight shiver as she traces that scar, and a slight chill runs down my spine. Sometimes the truth can be a hard and dangerous thing, even if it has to be known. She's hugging me again, whispering in my ear. I wrap my arms around her and tell her that everything will be okay. Maybe not now, but in time, it'll all be alright. Kristoff walks in, tousling Joan's hair as she tries to shy away, then he wraps his arms around my shoulders from behind.

"I see you two have made up at least," then he looks over at Joan, fixing her with a stare. "Ready to forgive your dad for doing the right thing yet, Snowflake?"

Joan shakes her head and he shrugs, walking off. He parts with the phrase: "Worth a shot."

It's not always easy doing the right thing, and people can get hurt. I should know, the truth has hurt me quite a lot in the past, but I like to think it's made me a better person—like I'm hoping it'll do for Joan. Speaking of which, now story time is over, she's got some work to do. Laundry. Dishes. Then if the weather holds—which it should if you're looking out for us up there—she can help Kristoff clean the yard. Me—I'm gonna find some chocolate, and try to get over telling our daughter that I once tried to kill myself. Tried to kill myself just to hurt someone else. The absolute worst thing I can think of. Chocolate. I need that chocolate…

 

Sunday morning, and the phone's ringing—actually, my phone. It's Adam, with a video call. I accept the call, and in the background I can see Belle nursing a cut on her cheek and what looks to be a black eye. I have to hold my tongue, especially seeing the look on Adam's face. It's so uncertain, even more than when I usually see him. It almost looks defeated. It's a sort of vague expression, I can't quite place it, and I have to wonder if he's taking his meds again.

"I–I— _We_ need help, miss Bergman," there's a slight pause as Belle moves a little closer, placing a hand on Adam's shoulder. He reaches up to take it before continuing. "You and… Kristoff? I hurt Belle; made myself take meds; feel so empty. Belle has a good idea." He turned to face her, looking slightly confused. "Do you?"

The flatness of his voice was unsettling, and I tried my best to ignore it. "You want us to sound out the idea?"

"We do," Belle leans in closer to the phone. "I hate seeing him like this, Anna."

"So what is this big idea?"

Belle smiles briefly, and then she's all business. "It's… unorthodox, but I think it might work better for all of us. Well, me and Adam, and you'll have less reason to worry about me getting hurt so much."

"Not hurting you," Adam smiles—tries to smile—up at Belle before turning back to face me. "Good when Belle isn't hurting."

Belle reaches down to end the call. The screen goes black, and it occurs to me I hadn't seen Adam like that before today. I don't know what drugs he's on to control his various psychoses, but they clearly leave him quite spaced out, and not in the best place mentally. But for some reason treating a damaged mind is still far more difficult than treating an injured body. A few minutes later I realize that we didn't actually arrange a meeting. Oops.

A few texts later—to Belle rather than Adam—and that little hiccup has been smoothed over. Later this afternoon, at the park. All four of us, plus Joan. She might still be grounded, but I don't want to leave her alone with such temptation. I know very well what I could be like at that age and for some reason I feel like I owe my mother a profound apology. I hope one day Joan knows exactly that kind of feeling. Or maybe not, because if I have grandkids—wait, I'm way too young to be even thinking about that, right? Anyway, they should be well behaved. At least enough that I'd still be able to keep up with them.

At the park there's five us, the sun's warm, but a gentle breeze takes away any bite. I still think I'm gonna get sunburned though. Belle and Adam have just finished explaining their rationale behind this new idea of theirs. She's asking me if it's a good idea.

"I don't know, is it?" I'm teasing her; I know it's a very serious issue, and I shouldn't be making light of it, but… coping mechanism. I'm sorry.

"Maybe. I'm learning self-defense. I'm not very good—"

"You held me back," Adam took Belle's hand as he spoke. "I could see _you_."

" _That's_ your plan?" I have to admit, it seemed very, very simple from where I was standing.

"The start of it," Belle smiled. "The lounge looks like we had a cage match in there."

"What?" that actually came from Joan.

"We've actually talked about this before, me and Adam. If he has a violent flashback, I have to _fight_ him. I think we gave his psychologist nightmares when we said it worked."

"If she fights, I see her, not them."

"Then we fight naked." Everyone turns to stare at Belle. "Not really." She laughs at us, but I'm not sure it's that much of a joke. "But we've made rules at least—bare hands only; no furniture; that kind of thing."

"What is this, some kind of bad wrestling parody?" from the Reindeer King. Yes, I married him. No, I don't regret it.

"No that would be us," I say softly, whispering something very naughty in his ear. He spanks me for it, which may or may not be what I actually wanted him to do.

"If you two are quite through trying to mortify the younger generation…" Belle fixes me with a dangerous stare as she finishes. "We're fighting, and not just during Adam's flashbacks. It's good fitness, and him learning how to evade around the apartment might actually make him a better dancer—we're hoping to make it to the masquerade ball in early December."

There's a strange pause, and no one can think of anything to say.

"You two are weird," Joan baby, a little sensitivity might—oh, yes, okay, if you're going to hug them like that. "My kind of weird."

"Would you like to come over for dinner?" Kristoff, playing his trump card. "I'm cooking."

"God yes. Should we bring anything?"

"An appetite." I can only roll my eyes. Alright, that was a good one, I shouldn't be so hard on him.

It's not that late in the afternoon, and we did bring some sporting goods with us. A softball bat, some tennis balls, and a catcher's mitt. I hold the bat over my shoulder and have a ball in my left hand. "Anyone up for a game?"

It's not softball, or catch, or anything really. Just ball. Someone throws, someone's at bat, and someone's out in the field to catch. It's fun, and watching Belle and Adam laugh and play it's almost enough to forget the darker side to their relationship. Almost. I can still see the bruises, but Belle's not that self-conscious about them. I catch a ball with my stomach for getting distracted. Good god Adam can swing that bat. Prosthetics. Limiters. I rub my stomach, throwing the ball back towards Belle, who's now moving to be at bat while Joan pitches.

Let's face it, Belle never was the sporty type. I'm surprised about the self-defense lessons too, but it makes sense. You know, in that crazy way, it's so crazy it might just work. Yeah, that way. Okay, so Belle might not be into sports, but she hit the ball pretty hard there. I'm watching it sail well past overhead. I follow at a slow jog, watching it bounce in the grass before coming to a stop just short of the path. I bend down to pick up the ball, and when I look up again, something by the bandstand catches my attention.

It can't be. It's impossible. But the sideburns. That leering smile. That _look_ that says he's better than you and you should accept it. I turn to walk away, and looking over my shoulder, if it was him, he's gone. For some reason that makes it worse. I can't just brush this off. If it's true, I'm scared of the lengths he'd go to to get back in my life. To prove he can still control me. My hands ball into fists. I'm not letting him ruin our day at the park. And you, up there, watching us, go kick him in the balls while no one's looking.

I make my way back to the others. I don't think I'm that shaken up, but obviously it shows. My hands _are_ shaking slightly. Kristoff is jogging over, and Belle looks pretty concerned. Why now?

"I think I just saw _Hans_ ," it's an urgent whisper. I don't want anyone else to hear. "There, by the bandstand." I point in the general direction I think he went. That I have literally no idea where he went, if it was actually him, is beside the point.

"If you think you saw him, you saw him," Kristoff puts his hands on my shoulders, squaring me up, looking me in the eye. "I can't see him now, but that doesn't mean he wasn't there. Do you want me to ring the police about it?"

"No." I'm not losing my mind, but I'm also not 100% sure it was him. I'd rather be sure. "But what was he doing here?"

"Maybe he got out on good behaviour?" It's hard to hold in a derisive snort, but I manage. Hans was a master manipulator. Of course he could have played the part of the perfect little prisoner. I don't even know if he saw me; if he recognized me. But damn it, he knows where we live. The house was technically his—ours, joint title, but you know what he was like—even if I paid off most of the mortgage myself. Well, me and Kristoff did. So he's got no leg to stand on, but I'm still afraid of what he might try to do.

"Mom, you okay?" It's Joan, and I guess she's right to be concerned. This might be my past, but it could hurt all of us, and I don't want that to happen.

"She saw Hans," Kristoff helpfully supplies, covering for me. To him it's a fact, and for some reason I'm heartened by his certitude. I watch as Joan spreads her feet slightly further apart, lowering her hips, hands in a fencing guard. I've seen her do that one so many times, unarmed vs armed. Adam tenses up when he sees Joan like that, hands curling into fists, a hardness shining behind his eyes. Belle wraps a hand around his wrist, but he shrugs it off, looking for the danger. Maybe he's still a little spaced out. Belle whispers something in his ear, and he relaxes slightly but remains alert.

This Hans thing has suddenly got me all tangled up inside, and I do not like it. I thought—well I guess I thought I was safe. I thought I wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. I wouldn't have to worry about any of that ugly stuff from my past. I locked it all up and put it away. Like stuffing everything in the closet and closing the door as it tries to burst back out. And maybe one or two things fell out while talking to Joan about you, Elsa… but this… god, it's everything. It's like the entire door broke and splintered and everything came crashing out and why is everyone just looking at me what did I… oh.

"Come on feistypants, I think it's time we took you home." Kristoff holds out his hand, helping me up from where I fell. "Belle, Adam, nice to see you two again. Joan, help me get your mother to the car."

"I'm fine." I take a couple of shaky steps to prove my point. Delayed reaction, finally figuring out what it really means if Hans is loose. Maybe I should have dealt with these feelings properly seventeen—eighteen—years ago. I thought I had. Guess I was just repressing them, like the idiot I am. Looks like you were right again, Elsa. Stinker. But really, can you blame me for just wanting to forget all of that? All I ever wanted was to keep the good memories of those times—the memories _we_ made. We were safe, and even if you had to go; it wasn't from any external dangers.

I'm walking back to the car, along the path. Kristoff's holding a hand against my shoulder, gently guiding me to safety. Joan's pacing ahead of us, her braid twisting as she whirls every now and then, trying to surprise a non-existent danger. The path is shaded by a few trees, but it's not dark. The light is… dappled? is that the right word? Huh, my thoughts are getting pretty damn scattered. It's like I'm in my own little bubble at the moment, just waiting for something to burst it. Not being a pessimist, but I'm scared, okay, and only after looking back did I see how much of a hell my life had become under Hans's domineering rule. How much I had let happen because I was afraid of being alone.

The car door slams, and the bubble falls apart, but somehow, it feels like I'm armoured now. This steel chariot to be my safety. Joan's just putting her seatbelt on, in the back seat, behind me.

"Don't worry mom, we won't let him hurt you."

"It'll be okay feistypants. I'm going to call the station later, and let them deal with it. Lieutenant Erikson knows what he's doing."


	11. Pictures

I'm shivering. At work. Mostly because I am most definitely not a plumber, and someone who shall remain nameless forgot to completely drain the pipework we're fixing so a whole mess of brackish and very cold water just went down the back—and front, and everywhere else—of my overalls. Right, well done. Now I've got see if I can borrow a pair from the guys on site—and even better I'm going to have to throw my clothes somewhere in the sun to dry, so they're going to _know_ I'm only wearing my underwear in this thing. Wonderful.

I've gotta fix this myself, Kristoff is elsewhere, but still on site, talking through another step of the renovation with Naveen. Possibly getting us a new contract too, with his cousin Al. So, first, new overalls, then into the lockers to change. Honestly, I don't care if they see me at this point, all I want is out of these wet clothes because that really was a surprising amount of water for a supposedly empty system. We've built a second supply line through the tank farm, and we hooked it up yesterday. Now we're dismantling the old line to sell for scrap on Naveen's behalf.

Y'know what? It's close to lunch time. Maybe I'll just take a break for a little while, try and dry off in the sun. Be good for me, I'm sure. Still gonna throw the overalls somewhere though. After a slightly squidgy walk to the cafeteria, I figure maybe it's not so bad, and just grab my lunch and head outside. It's bright and clear, very warm for a late summer's day. I think I can feel the dampness steaming off me already. I close me eyes and take a deep breath, enjoying a moment's peace before everyone else is due out on break.

A hand against my shoulder makes me shiver and duck away, turning to face my assailant—it's only Kristoff.

"Still jumpy then," he sits beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "Also, wet." Said arm is quickly removed from my shoulders and shaken off. "Care to tell me why?"

"Because we didn't drain the old line properly, that's why," I huff, shoulders sagging. I say we, I really meant me. I do recall him saying something about catchments and drainage points—but I was sure we got all of those.

"Don't worry about it," and he pats me on the back. "I'll be with you after lunch; I think we got in with Al."

"Cool." It occurs to me that aside from being Naveen's cousin, I know nothing about this Al. "So, what's he want?"

"Plant upgrade, believe it or not—Hi Marshall—and he wants to start in the workshop."

"I assume you mean his workshop—Hey Zoe—and he wants everything?"

"He does. He really does. Naveen's been talking to him about expanding, so this would be good for everyone."

I leave the intricacies of business to Kristoff—he's more than sensible enough to handle all of it. Honestly, I prefer having the simple jobs. Well, ones where I don't have to liaise with half a dozen people at a time. Except at lunch, which I don't mind right now, because the banter's going nowhere, but it's keeping my mind off the fact my shirt's still quite damp. Screw it. I unzip my overalls down to the waist, and tie the sleeves together. At least my shirt'll dry faster now. Then Kristoff whispers something dirty in my ear and I can't help but blush at the thought.

I thump him, but not hard. I keep my voice low. "You shouldn't be saying things like that in front of this lot."

"Yeah, but half of them are married, and the other half are just jealous." He rounds it out with a lop-sided grin, pulling me close. This time he doesn't take his arm away to dry it off. Looking at everyone's face, I have to wonder if maybe they're _all_ jealous. Of me, of him, of us, in general. I don't know why, but I like that thought. It also keeps any thoughts of Hans far, far from my mind, at least for a little while.

* * *

The rest of the day wasn't so bad, so now I'm just sitting on the couch—your couch—thinking of one of those lazy afternoons we spent together. I wonder if you think of them, watching over us from up there. I still miss you, and I really wish you were here so you could see how amazing our daughter really is. I'm sure if you saw her you'd smile more. Although if you were here right now, I have feeling you'd be off hunting Hans, making good on your threats. Maybe you still can. I mean, you could always arrange an accident for him, couldn't you, Elsa?

Okay, fine, I know it's not very kind of me, but a) you know what he put me through, and b) maybe I'm more worried about this whole Hans thing than I really want to admit—even to myself. So anyway, I'm here on the couch, just thinking about one random afternoon we spent watching cartoons. Don't really remember which ones, only that I liked them despite myself. Or maybe it was because you were there, and we really weren't paying too much attention to the cartoons. Well… I wasn't, but you didn't seem to mind that I got a little hands-y that afternoon.

I guess that's probably enough daydreaming for now. Joan's finishing the dishes, and with the laundry list of things I gave her to do as punishment for stealing the car, she's now actually earned something back. I ask her what she wants back, and have to give her a quizzical look as she asks for her radio. Only and specifically her radio; doesn't even bother pressing for anything else.

"Any particular reason you want the radio before everything else?"

"It helps me sleep. And I have some of your old CDs, remember?"

"I was wondering where those went." I wasn't.

"Mom… umm… can you tell me more about auntie Elsa?"

"I can," I tease her for a moment, before hearing her annoyed huff. "Oh, you meant right now?"

"Yes, now," and she flops bonelessly into one of the armchairs. I can't help but smile when I remember one time you did that, getting home, not realizing I was asleep in said chair.

—∞—

It took me another two days to recover enough to stand on my own, let alone walk anywhere—though some of that was due to having badly twisted my almost healed ankle. I have no idea how I broke my nose though, because despite the haze, I could remember landing on my back. No, that was wrong. I had been carried; I had floated away on my back. I remember feeling something sticky spreading underneath my shirt, running and pooling everywhere, staining the floor. I looked at my wrist through fuzzy eyes. So much blood.

Kristoff was right, I'd been damn lucky to survive. I guess that had something to do with a few transfusions. I'm grateful to those people that give blood. I decided then that if it was possible I would start donating blood. Back to Kristoff—he was there again, in the afternoon.

"Anna, if you don't settle down you'll be here twice as long." I let him press me back into the pillows, seething at the fact he was right.

"But I have to tell Isabella I'm oka—"

"I told her for you, while we were waiting for you to wake up."

"Shouldn't she know I woke up?"

"Told her that too. That was when I learned she really does like you." I decided to ignore that for now.

"But I want to see her, to tell her I'm okay."

"Anna, you are most definitely _not_ okay," he gently took ahold of my left wrist, turning it over to show me the bandages I already knew were there. "Especially if this is any indication."

My eyes looked anywhere but at him. I knew he wasn't accusing me of anything, but it was hard to admit what I'd done had been done out of spite, not out of despair—and that that made it much, much worse. I couldn't tell anyone—back then, at least.

"I just hate feeling so helpless," I gave him what I hoped was a pointed look. "I need to _do_ something."

"And that something is get better. And to do that, you have to rest," he gave me a mock-evil grin. "Doctor's orders."

I made a cross with my fingers to ward him away. "No. No. Anything but that!" He laughed.

"I knew you were in there—but I'm still not letting you out."

"Dammit Kristoff, I'm _fine_. I can do this."

"Not without hurting yourself." Only then did I have a grand flash of inspiration.

"Okay, if you won't let me out, will you take me out?" I facepalmed. "I mean, not like that—not that I wouldn't—I mean you're a great guy, but…" I held out a hand. "One shovel please."

"I'll just blame the painkillers for that…" but he still took my hand. "I'll take you to Isabella, but we have to get you a wheelchair first."

"Seriously?!"

He whispered in my ear: "Doctor's orders."

—∞—

"So _that's_ why dad loves saying that when you're sick."

"Umm… wasn't I telling you a story?"

"I figure you got to auntie Elsa next, sitting pretty in your wheelchair."

"Sitting, yes. Pretty I was not. I have a picture on my phone somewhere."

"I wanna see it, but I kinda don't at the same time."

I'm scrolling through the earliest set of pictures I keep saved on every phone. We're both in there; and Joan, and Kristoff. "It's up to you, baby."

That's the one. Some of my hair's still a bit matted, snarled from too much time in bed. Fading black eye. Bridge bandage over my broken nose, bags under my eyes. Hospital gown. IV pole in the background, and a big hand on the back of my wheelchair. There's a couple more pictures—one of them is a before and after of the bandages on my wrist, and the angry scar it left. The other picture has my breasts in it—well, I tried to cover them with my left arm, still bandaged—but more importantly it has the scar. Just over two inches long, perfectly set between my ribs, on the left side. I don't think I'll be showing Joan either of those pictures.

I put the first picture back up, and hold out my phone so Joan can see. I see anger, then fear, then love playing across her face—so much like yours. Then she's on top of me, hugging me like we've been apart for years. She knew, of course, some of the details, but not everything. She knows how I got the scars, but she didn't know the full story behind them. Until now.

—∞—

"Anniken, you idiot!" _Nice to see you too, Isabella. I was going to tell you I'm okay…_ I can only laugh at how right she is. Maybe it's silly, letting her call me out like that, but she did warn me. About everything, really. She smiled in relief as I laugh, and my good hand reached into the pocket on my gown, and snap. _Gotcha_.

I had to laugh even harder at her rabbit-in-the-headlights expression. Or maybe she's surprised I can move so fast. I wheeled myself over to the bed—Kristoff's waiting outside, he let me have this much at least. I showed Isabella the picture and she tried to steal my phone, but I got it off her somehow. I always was stronger. She pouted, and I cannot believe how attractive that made her look. I actually found it hard to believe I was attracted to another woman in the first place, but she was special.

There's a silence, and yes, it got awkward. We really didn't know where to begin. I was impressed that she made the first move.

"I… I missed you, Anna." I heard the sorrow in her voice, and it _hurt_. I know it wasn't my fault—at least not entirely—but still, it hurt.

"I'm sorry, Isabella… if I'd just listened…"

I think I sniffed a little, and suddenly I felt something warm in my left hand. She was reaching out to me. I felt it as our fingers twined together, and it felt… right. When she spoke her voice was low, and I still remember every word.

"Sometimes we have to make our own mistakes, only then can we truly learn from them."

I looked up at her as she finished. "I think this mistake schooled me pretty hard."

She smiled at me, not quite laughing. Her voice was carefully neutral when she spoke again.

"Anniken, if you like, you can call me Elsa."


	12. Abridged

 

Today has been good, even if I did get splattered with hydraulic oil on several occasions. At least _I_ didn't cover the bench with it. Yes, it was the Reindeer King. I was about two seconds away from telling him that that side of the piston chamber was still full, and I was getting _ready_ to drain it. Not that I already had. But it had been something of a long day, and we were both a bit tired. So we spent the last half hour with rags, sawdust, and some cans of degreaser, cleaning the floor.

So right now, just getting home, it's shower time. I rush past Kristoff into the house, throwing off certain items of clothing as I go. I think I can hear a protest from Joan at that, but I'm up the stairs before anything really registers. And now that's better, warm water running down my back, splashing my face. It's the little things. I'm itching that scar, the one just beneath my left breast. I shouldn't, I know. You kept telling me back then. At least I'm not still covering myself with my arms if someone gets too close to that side—and you helped me with that.

Or maybe I'm still worried about Hans. I know I shouldn't obsess like this, but you remember the mess he left me. It's okay though—and now I'm using that bodywash you got me. Of course it's not the same one… you remember how many we bought that time—yeah, that was fun. I think you have ruined strawberries for me forever. Maybe not though, because I always did like forbidden fruit after I found you and God I'm rambling right now. Whatever. And I think I'm going to tell Joan the next part just in brief, because not a whole lot happened; not until you— _you—_ asked me to be there to see you stand again.

Eeee. Cold. Cold cold cold. I don't care how the plumbing is linked in this place, I blame _you_. Also, yes, you're right, I might have kind of sneaked past the interns in the physio ward just to see you. But hey, at least I made you smile when they threw me out. Then I maybe tried to ask you on a date in my fumbling not really sure how to ask another girl out way, and you actually said yes—and actually, no. We will not revisit that evening, no matter how funny you think it is. Fine. Maybe.

I think Joan's surprised to see me in pyjamas this early in the evening. They're comfortable, and it's not like we're expecting company. I actually really like the idea of making tonight a family night. We'll just sit in, and play boardgames or watch TV or not really listen to the radio or something like that. I sit in one of the armchairs, flicking hair out of my face. I'm checking my phone—Belle wants to meet at the park again, and against what may be my better judgement, or may be just general anxiety about this whole Hans thing, I want to meet up with her too.

"Joan?"

"Yeah mom?"

"What'd'you think about meeting Belle and Adam at the park tomorrow?"

"Sure," she shrugs noncommittally. "It's not like you're gonna let me out for anything else except school at this point, is it?"

"And you know exactly why that is, too."

"It's been a week."

"I still let you keep fencing." Okay, _I_ know it's an empty threat, but I don't think she does. She just huffs and goes back to her phone. Probably Tina, I'm thinking, complaining about how unfair parents are. Commiserating, I guess. Sometimes I wish had more insight into the Belafonts', enough to at least know Tina is actually safe and well, though I'm pretty sure Joan would still tell me if something was amiss.

A strong hand grabs my shoulder and lifts me from the chair. I'm surprised for a split-second before there's a voice at my ear. "Come on feistypants, you did promise to help me cook, after all."

Oh, right. So I did. Silly me. Joan asks what it is—a mince and pasta dish we reply, moving into the kitchen. Well, it's a little more involved than that, what with the vegetables, spices, and pasta sauce. It's not long before everything is simmering nicely. I like cooking with Kristoff—I still have my doubts as to where his cooking skill is from, but it's undeniable that it's there, and that it's significant. Anyway, it's about the sense of familiarity; of family; of belonging. He wraps his arms around me from behind while we wait for everything to cook, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"You're okay to go to the park tomorrow?" There's a hint of worry; concern for me.

"I should be. We'll be surrounded by our friends, just like last time." I pause—I have to—trying to think of the best way to phrase the next part. "I'm still kinda scared I might see him again, but this time I'm going to deal with it my way."

"Anna, why do I get the feeling that this might involve threats and/or violence towards someone's balls—do you really want another charge like that on your record?"

Okay, ouch, that was low. Harsh. I get the feeling he's right though. Maybe not for the reasons he thinks, because the last time I confronted Hans I ended up with that four inch stab wound in my chest. And that slash down my wrist. I won't count the trial or the summary divorce—those felt like formalities after the fact to me. Maybe I need to grow up, like you said, and actually deal with the anxieties and insecurities that bastard made in me. I can feel a soft kiss on my cheek, and Kristoff's teasing my unbound hair.

"You're overthinking things. Again. You don't have to confront him—and you probably shouldn't, even if you are stronger and arguably wiser now."

"'Arguably' wiser, eh?"

"Yup." He's not even trying. He wants to tease me about my impulsiveness. I guess he's earned the right by now—I'm pretty merciless with everyone else's flaws, after all. Doesn't mean I'm going to take it lying down though. I gesture towards the pots, those which need stirring while simmering.

"Age before beauty, mister wisdom." It goes from there.

* * *

"Well, that was fun," Joan commented drily, putting her monster back in the box as we pack up.

"You liked it, Snowflake. I saw that smile you cracked when the Bronx got levelled."

"Which still wasn't enough to get me the win, was it dad?" Joan kept complaining. "Especially not when you and mom play as a team."

"Hey, I couldn't help all those hearts he rolled. And anyway, I thought you really liked this game?"

"When I was a—okay, yeah, I still like it," she let out a heavy sigh, rolling onto her back on the carpet. "I'm just worried about Tina. I haven't heard from her all week."

"She's been at school, right?"

"Yeah, of course she has mom. It's just, I haven't heard a single thing from her after school. At all. All week. And so now I'm worried about her and what her dad's doing and my mind's just running in circles trying to make some kind of sense of all this and its not easy to do and sometimes I wish I could talk to auntie Elsa, in person, and ask her advice about these things but I know I can't and… and I wish it really wasn't that way."

"You know you can still talk to us—even if you're mad at us; or if we're mad at you?"

"I know, mom. I know. It's just… someone else to talk to would be nice. Another adult, family, but like not you, or dad, but… is it possible to miss someone you've never met? Because I think I really would have liked to talk to my grandparents about stuff like this."

"Maybe there's somewhere else we should visit first tomorrow," Kristoff nudges me, nodding in the rough direction of the cemetery. Maybe he's right. It _has_ been a long time.

"It's also bedtime. Sleep on it baby, you'll see it clearer in the morning."

"Mo—"

"Also, didn't you want to hear more about how auntie Elsa—" Hmph.

Did not know she could move that fast. I make my own way up the stairs, and then I close the door quietly behind me, sitting against the side of the bed. Joan scoots over, under the covers. It's a little awkward, given the angles, but hey, we can still see each other's faces.

—∞—

I had just spent the last week in the hospital. I'd spend the next one there too—both for observation of my mental state, and the fact the stab wound got infected. I was bored. There was never a whole lot to do in a hospital. There was crappy daytime TV, of course, and I had some phone games, and Lefou had left me a book—I don't remember what it was anymore, except that it was somehow _worse_ than the TV. But I wasn't watched 24/7 anymore. I seemed stable. I was; better than I had been in years.

All it took was getting stabbed in the chest, leaving the man who tried to break me in an abusive relationship, and discovering somehow that I might have secretly been a lesbian all along. It was a lot to take in, and Kristoff and Lefou helped me sort through it. So did Elsa. It was weird thinking of her that way, and somehow the name Elsa fit her much better than Isabella. They let me visit her during regular visiting hours, and I really appreciated that. It always left both of us with a smile.

Then end of the second week came, I went to visit Elsa, I was still using crutches—because the nurse insisted—but that wasn't the first thing my blonde goddess commented on.

"You look much better, Anna." She smiled at me as she spoke, sitting up slowly in the bed.

"It is," I pulled open the top of my gown, letting her see the raw pink flesh around the knife wound, and the black thread of the stitches. "Still kinda looks like a zipper though."

She facepalmed, blushing slightly. She wasn't used to people so confident in their own bodies. I could tell. Also, I maybe could have been a little more discreet in showing off my scars. It was too late by then of course.

"So, you'll be starting physio for your leg soon?"

"In a few days, hopefully. I'll let you know more when I know."

"And exactly how are you going to let me know, without a phone or anything?"

"You'll just have to come and ask me yourself, won't you."

Oh. That made sense to me—and she still wanted to see me. I wanted to keep seeing her too. Progress seemed slow, but I know now she wasn't just looking for a physiotherapist. We'll get to that later. We made small talk, mostly about the inadequacies of daytime television, and generally not saying a whole lot. We would lapse into silence every now and then, but by that point it was a companionable kind of silence.

I was discharged from the hospital a day later, but they recommended I take it easy for the next couple of weeks, just in case. They also recommended seeing a physiotherapist about my ankle due to how I'd injured it again—apparently in a different way—during the recovery period. I took the doctors' advice. The hospital had a physio ward, so it was convenient whenever I might also visit Elsa. Little did I know she would show up in that same ward two weeks later. It was weird, the first time, seeing her outside the hospital. I had to do a double take, especially given how disheveled she looked—but I knew from recent experience how much effort it actually took to move around on those crutches.

The person helping her move was a giant. Not literally, but he must have been at least 6' 6", and I don't know how massive. Maybe 280? He was an absolute bear of a man, but there was absolutely nothing threatening or imposing about his size. Elsa stumbled, and he caught her as gently as he might his own child. I looked away, fairly sure Elsa didn't want me to see her like this. I caught a snippet of their conversation as the door to one of the physio rooms opened in front of them.

"…more careful, miss Frostad."

"I just… slipp—" And the door closed behind them.

I went home, as had been my routine for the past two weeks. I'd had no work—although Kristoff said I could come in and do the basic machining on our next project if I felt up to it. I figured I would start on the next Monday, ease back into work. It would get me out of the house, at least. And the house just felt so damn _empty_. Part of me—a small, desperately lonely part of me—wanted Hans back just so the house wouldn't be so empty. The rest of me was considering whether or not I'd rent out a room; or invite a friend to stay for a while.

The problem with that of course was I only had something like four or five friends. Kristoff, but he was also my boss. Lefou, and his problems were comparable to mine, but I got the feeling he would deal with it in his own way. Rapunzel, my cousin—who I still haven't seen in years—who was living across the ocean with her new husband Eugene. Okay, so scratch that one. Audrey wouldn't, mostly because her and her sister are completely inseparable. I was getting desperate. Then… then there was Elsa. I had no idea how she might react if I offered her the room. And whether or not I would tell her why.

The following week became a blur of tiredness at work, aching muscles and joints, and making some real progress on my physiotherapy. I could walk without crutches, and even stand for quite a while. I could not, however, run, or even jog. Elsa, well, she had it a lot worse. I contrived various excuses to stay in the ward, to find ways to see how Elsa was doing with her own physio course. When Kristoff asked me why I was basically stalking my girl-crush, I had to stop.

But she was so _close_. I'd seen her every time. The struggle to rise. To take even one step. The pain and concentration on her face; and the despair when she couldn't. There had been many false starts. So many close calls—but her physiotherapist caught her every time. I was watching a gentle giant nurse a broken bird back to health. She would take a step with her good leg, then move her hands across the rails. Then she would try to take another step, and her ankle would twist, or her knee would give way, or both hands would go to her thigh, and her physiotherapist would catch her. She was convinced she would never dance again. He told her she wouldn't with that attitude.

Then he asked her to show him how to waltz. He placed each of her feet atop one of his own, then began to move slowly about the room. He asked her if that counted as her dancing, and she laughed. Maybe at the absurdity of it, but I could tell it was a happy laugh. I had a master plan now for how to get into Elsa's next session.

—∞—

"I'm guessing that's what got you thrown out, right mom?"

I smile for Joan. "Yup. Blew up in my face completely."

"And what else were you doing, because I know you weren't just working, sleeping, and stalking auntie Elsa. You… you divorced Hans, right? Was there some kind of hearing? And, um… your license too—didn't you get that back?"

"Baby, divorcing Hans was a non-event. I didn't even need a hearing, and I got pretty much everything in the settlement for all the harm he'd done to me over the years. You're right, I did get my license back, but that wasn't until some time later."

"Oh, oh, and what about the spare room—did someone stay in it before auntie Elsa moved in with you?"

"No," I sigh, shaking my head sadly. I can still remember those empty nights and afternoons. Mornings that were far too quiet. Even background noise from the TV or radio didn't help. I just can't stand to be alone. It's a weakness; like my impulsiveness, or the way I always tease people. I couldn't stand an empty house, and back then, I recall I had a vague notion of selling the place and moving into a cosy little apartment so I'd have people all around me.

—∞—

I was watching Elsa intently. Her physiotherapist, whom I now knew went by the name of Oaken—possibly a nickname, given his and strength and sturdiness—had taken away the rails. Elsa stood in the middle of the room held up only by her crutches, not resting any weight on her right leg. She had one of those fancy plastic walker casts.

"You can do this, Isabella. I know you can rest some weight on that leg now."

"I… it's hard, Oaken. I keep thinking I'll fall again."

Oaken smiled warmly at her. "If you do, I will catch you, like always. But this time we will try again. And again. And again. Until either you pass out from exhaustion or you stand. This is the first step. Do this, and you _will_ dance again. Are you ready?"

Elsa nodded reluctantly, and Oaken took the first crutch—the one under her left arm. I watched as she tottered back and forth, left arm spreading out to maintain her balance. _You can do this_. I knew she could, but I tried to project that thought straight at her to give her more than what she needed. Oaken took the second crutch, and I wriggled around uncomfortably in my hiding spot, trying to get a better view. Elsa was standing. Unsteadily. Her arms moved slowly, and seemingly awkwardly, keeping her balanced, almost all her weight on her left leg.

"You can do this Isabella—just do it slowly—don't press on your leg, just shift your balance with your hi—yes! Yes! Just like that. Good."

Elsa was panting with effort, and I could see sweat beading on her forehead. All her concentration was on this one task.

"Yes!" That was Oaken, congratulating her.

"Yes!" That was me, and I really should have known better, but I had just seen Elsa standing on her own two feet. Oaken dragged me up from my hiding spot. His demeanour had changed in an instant, and now he really was scary.

"What were you doing back there?"

"Watching?" I asked hopefully.

"Get out!"

Oaken turned—because it was Elsa that had just shouted at me. She was furious, and she advanced on me, taking two, shaky steps. I cringed back, arms covering my chest, and turned aside. Elsa stumbled, but Oaken caught her, carefully lowering her into a sitting position. Then he slung me over his shoulder, and despite some colourful protests, marched towards the door. Somehow there was an orderly there waiting for me, and I recalled something that I probably shouldn't have.

"Oooh, kicking and screaming, please."

I made a scene. I scared some people, I'm sure. But what I saw as I was dragged away made it all worthwhile—including the serious reprimands I got from the staff, the hospital, and even Kristoff. Because just before I went past the doorjamb, I had seen Elsa covering her mouth with her hands, shaking with silent laughter. At me, no doubt, but I didn't care. I'd seen her stand. And smile. And made her laugh. It was worth the world to me.


	13. Revival

There's a light drizzle in the sky this morning. Seems appropriate really, as we're talking to the dead right now. The cemetery is quiet, and the leaves of the few forlorn trees are barely audible rustling in the wind. I feel bad, because the last time we were all up here was something like five years ago. Five years at least, maybe more. I've moved on and accepted the deaths of my parents; but that never meant I should have forgotten them, so I'm ashamed when I see fresh flowers on a few of the graves, and nothing but an empty—and very dirty—glass jar set between my parents' headstones.

There's nothing buried down there. They were lost on flight 447—it fell into the ocean after its pitot tubes froze over, giving incorrect readings to the pilots. It took two years to find that out from the time the plane crashed. My parents' bodies still lie somewhere beneath the waves, along with 70 odd other people that flew with them. I shake my head to clear it, a sudden weight settling across my shoulders. I sit, folding my legs, shuffling my jacket around so I don't get too wet. Kristoff sits next to me. Joan kneels behind us.

"Hi mom. Hi dad. It's been too long." It really has. Five years? Seven? Ten? Elsa's crypt is here, and I pay my respects once a year. My parents' graves are on the far side of the cemetery—a fair walk, but it isn't truly out of my way. There was a long gap before Joan was born too. After Elsa died I didn't know where to turn at first, so Kristoff found me here, just sitting in the rain. Behind me Joan's talking.

"Grannie, Grandad, I really wish I could've met you. We sho— _I_ should visit more often. Maybe it's silly, but it would still be nice if I could talk to you even once. I can hardly remember the last time we were here."

Kristoff didn't say anything, just put a hand on my shoulder and bowed slightly towards each of the headstones. He's not much for words in this place, but his actions always speak louder anyway. I really can't think of anything else to say. I think it's actually a time for quiet reflection, and that suits me just fine. Would've suited you just fine too, hovering up there, watching over my shoulder. But if I need it, I can always see your smile now. I've accepted what happened, and the past is the past, but you weren't my parents. You I can't quite let go; not even after all these years—or maybe it's telling Joan about you that's bringing you back to me. But I don't regret it.

I turn to Joan. "We'll wait in the car for you, but try not to get too wet."

She laughs, but her voice is serious. "You–you trust me; like this?"

I kneel down, taking her shoulders in my arms, and kiss her hair. "You've got things to say to them I shouldn't hear. Plus, I know where you live." I stick my tongue out as she turns to look at me. "We'll be in the car, okay?"

"Okay mom."

Kristoff's in the car, waiting patiently. He's wearing a wry smile. "You know I have parents too?"

"And Bulda's great, if a little overbearing and inappropriate. But she's more like an aunt to Joan than a grandparent—wait, that's a good thing, I meant like the kind of aunt that always spoils her nieces and nephews. Anyway, you know as well as I do who she meant when she was talking last night—and coming here was _your_ suggestion."

"It was. I think it was the right thing to do. And Bulda's not always so great with worldly advice—you remember Sven and Olaf?"

We promised never to speak of it again. Not after that summer barbecue debacle that I might have been proud of were it my fault. I think even you might have found it funny. This was a few years after you died, when I was nearly feeling normal again. Just after Joan was born, I think. Anyway, in the end we needed three firetrucks and a monsoon bucket. Quiet barbecue and bonfire night my ass. And if you even _think_ that joke, I will find a way to slap you. Somehow.

Joan's back, looking lighter, if wetter, and she slips into the car, wringing water from her braid. We head home for lunch, not saying much. There's no real tension, just a lack of common ground right now. It's weird, even for us. I have to close my eyes, taking deep breaths. Beginning to focus and meditate—the way you showed me. And in my mind's eye I see you, me, Kristoff, and Joan. We're happy. The way we should be. I'm not sure how Joan will feel about the ending to our story, but that's still a long ways off. I just know it's going to hurt. Both of us—and maybe you, because you never liked seeing me hurt.

* * *

The rain stopped, but there's more clouds in the sky. The ground at the park is hardly even damp, the grass just wet enough to make the ankles of my jeans annoyingly damp. Not that that didn't happen this morning, but it's the principle of the thing. We brought the bat and a few balls to hit, just for something to do. Belle and Adam are here, just walking over to us. She waves and he looks up and whoa—

"Nice shiner. You do that Belle—get a little too energetic?"

"Well… no," she's turning an interesting shade of pink.

"Showers," Adam intones cryptically, and Belle's blush intensifies. Well, I'm pretty sure I can now put two and two together here. At least, I think so. Mostly because of how embarrassed they are by the whole thing, and the black eye, and the mention of showers. What they don't know is I've been there too. Soap or bodywash running over the shower floor, feet slipping around, and the only thing to grab onto is another slippery, soapy body.

What?

"Handrails," and I wink, giving the pair an equally cryptic reply and a suggestive wink.

"So, Adam, any luck on the job front?" Kristoff asks, slinging the bat over his shoulder and smiling.

"No, nothing out there right now. I'm considering a special dispensation because it might not be safe for me to work around others." I shake my head sadly at his forlorn tone. What else can I do? He's strong, but unpredictable. Smart, but callous—and the only thing he really loves is Belle. Well, maybe he's not callous, but he can be cold and distant, but that might be the PTSD. I don't know what he did or saw in Kyrgyzstan, but I do know he was injured there, and didn't come back quite right, either because of that, or something that happened there. I've never had the courage to ask him—and part of me really doesn't want to know. I just hope his story back home has a better ending than most.

"We playing or what?" Joan asks, pulling me from my reverie, trying and failing to juggle the tennis balls we brought.

"I'll play," Belle answered, taking one of the balls. "Ball tiggy. You get hit, you're it. Start running."

We scattered throughout the tree-lined paths, ducking and weaving. Belle followed, wielding the ball with some menace—an effect ruined somewhat by her light sundress and happy smile. Adam wasn't far from me, and neither was Belle.

"Hey, big guy." Adam turned to me, blocking the incoming ball.

"Cheat." He was laughing, bending to retrieve the ball.

"I didn't hear any rules," and then I shriek because that throw bounced off a tree trunk and sailed within an inch of my nose. It was time to move, and I'm not sure if a trail of leaves was getting kicked up behind me like in a cartoon, but it certainly would have made sense. I tried hiding behind some roots, but I never was that patient. A tennis ball zipping past told me I probably shouldn't stay in one place too long anyway. The chase was on.

I hit the grass, slipping and overbalancing, the dampness just enough to make me slide sideways a few inches.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Good," and then Adam drops the ball on my head. Yay. "You're it." And he's gone. But now I have the ball, and it's time to go on the offensive. I shouldn't be it for too long.

Everyone's hiding, sprinting from cover to cover in the distance. I see Adam stumble, grabbing a branch to stay upright, and then I hear the branch itself cracking before snapping back up when he lets it go. I see a flash of platinum in the distance, and the ball bounces behind Joan as she tucks and rolls, slipping behind a tree. I jog over to collect the ball, and she's already gone. Someone whistles behind me, and I see Kristoff sticking out from behind another tree. The ball hits a branch, bounces down onto a root, then shoots off into the distance. I run after it, hearing Kristoff laughing behind me; then heavy footsteps as he beats a hasty retreat.

I can hear someone trying to sneak past behind me, so I turn and throw. Belle lets out a little gasp of pain, sitting quickly on the path. She's rubbing her stomach and I think I might have hit her a bit hard.

"Ow," she winces. "That was kind of hard, Anna."

"Sorry," I wince, helping her up. "Sometimes I don't know my own strength." It's true, but I think a good part of that is I take it for granted that I can do these things, and expect others to be similar in ability. I should have learned that that was not the case decades ago.

"That's probably going to leave another bruise," she sighed, blushing slightly. "When we… slipped, I fell half across the bath and he landed on top of me and the faucet. So that really did hurt, but I'll be okay if you promise to stop abusing me."

"Maybe we should just play catch for a while."

"I'll find Adam. You find your lot."

As I'm walking away something hits me from behind, on the cheek. Massaging my backside I shoot Belle a dirty look. She's the picture of innocence. Of course she would be, but we know better. I find Joan and Kristoff, and we end up just sitting and lounging around on park benches under the shade of the trees, talking with Adam and Belle. It's nice, and it's funny the way they skirt around questions of when and how they acquired their most recent injuries. We all know, of course—well, Joan might not have picked up that subtlety yet—which is what makes it so much funnier to tease them about. They're good sports at least.

We leave, late in the afternoon, shadows lengthening and a cool breeze taking the final bite from the sunlight overhead. Overall I think it's been a good day. It has been. I'm happy, relaxed, and my mind is no longer trying to cook up worst case scenarios involving Hans. Instead I'm just idly wondering what we'll do for dinner, and what time we'll see Belle and Adam again. In the distance I see a crop of red hair—but it can't be Hans, and actually, she looks really nice but I don't think I could do dreads.

"Just remember we're married now," Kristoff whispers in my ear before kissing me.

I have the good grace to blush for being so transparent.


	14. Beginnings

"Nice war paint." Joan sits around the table from me. "What'd you kill?"

"What?" I'm not quite sure what she's on about. Maybe I need a mirror. Or to wipe my face and—oh, there we go. Covered in grinding dust. In the perfect outline of my mask, I'm sure. Of course it manages to get behind the visor. Could also be the fact I was cutting and grinding all day on the dropsaw and the linisher. But hey, it was fun working with Maurice for a change—although I can still _smell_ the metal we've been cutting. Joan's still actually talking, and now she's making her point.

"So, I've been thinking… given how busy you two are going to be over the weeke—"

"No." Coming from the kitchen, where dinner is just about to be served. Joan looks at me, about to plead her case.

"No." I take her hand gently and lower my voice. "I know how much you want to, but trust me, it's a bad idea."

"Having Tink here for a sleepover is not a bad idea."

"It is when you're lying to her parents about it."

"Well no one else's parents are going to be out for the weekend."

"Who said anything about us going out, Snowflake?" Kristoff musses her hair with his left hand while placing her meal in front of her with his right.

"Hey—shouldn't your _wife_ get first dibs?" I mean I should, right? His cooking skills were the reason I married him. Well, among a number of other things that are probably more important but not so much right now because I'm goddamn _hungry_.

"Ease up feistypants, we're all hungry."

Please tell me I didn't say all that out loud.

"After sixteen years I should know how your mind works," he winks at me, heading back to the kitchen. "And anyway, I need two hands to serve yours."

I was about to ask if it was because my steak was the size of a small country, but he came back with a plate in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. I'm not sure, but I get the feeling I've forgotten something important. I surreptitiously check the date on my phone. Yes, there's a reminder there, throughout pretty much the whole day. I have forgotten something. That quip about sixteen years is the clue. One glass of champagne to celebrate another year. I'm lucky he doesn't expect gifts on time—he knows better by now. You learned that too, didn't you? Yeah, I'm sorry about that first Valentine's day, but I think that picture of my face makes up for it. I just look so shocked its hilarious.

That said, not all gifts are so physical in nature. Some things are worth more as actions and expression than any physical goods ever could be. Anyway, I'm essentially tearing through my steak at a rate of knots by the time Kristoff sits down with his. No formality right now, which is good, because I'm making kind of a mess. At least it's all on my plate. Remember that time we had the fancy soup? Yeah, nearly needed to wash down the whole room. Okay, fine, we weren't that bad, and maybe it was because we kept trying to dunk our bread in each other's soup—and that was your just desserts for teasing me all day after you got home that time.

It was rather less funny near the end though; when soup was about the only thing you could keep down. I cared for you as best I could, with help from the nurses at the hospital. I–I don't want to think about that time. Not now. I'd rather try to remember all the good we had; all our adventures; all our… explorations. And yes, I will tell Joan about our first date, and how badly I messed it up. In my mind, at least.

So now I'm lying on Joan's bed, and she's lying next to me, and in the background the radio is playing something from the 90's. I can't remember the name, but the chorus has that line 'save tonight and something or other, for tomorrow I'll be gone'. I have to blink back tears, because it reminds me of our last night, because on that tomorrow you _were_ gone. Forever.

"So, you already know I was basically stalking Elsa at her physio."

"And you got dragged away kicking and screaming, yeah."

—∞—

I still had a few more physio sessions to go through, mostly working on impact training. I tried to see Elsa during her sessions, but she must have re-scheduled things to avoid me. I didn't like the idea that she might be actively avoiding me now. She was still staying the hospital though, in a long term post-op ward. I had to wonder why she didn't go home, to an apartment or something. I didn't know at the time she'd only been renting, trying to live in a student flat while working on her dance career. It really did take off, but by then it was too late.

I sat, somewhat heavily, in the chair next to Elsa's bed. As was starting to become traditional, I'd brought some fruit to share. A little punnet of strawberries. I would confront her about avoiding me, but I didn't want to hurt her—she might have had good reason. It might not have been her choice. I had a breathless little laugh at that. Maybe I'd gotten all worked up over nothing. Still, I asked.

"Elsa, why are you avoiding me?"

"Avoiding you, Anniken?" She looked at me, slightly confused. "We're right here. This is not avoiding you."

"No, I mean the physio, you stinker. Okay, yeah, I know, I know, I shouldn't have sneaked in and watched you, but you were making so much progress and I wanted to see you stand again and I'm so proud of you because you managed it and _I_ wanted to help you because it was me that hurt you and—"

"Slow down, please," she held up her hands in a halting gesture. "And you know I'm not mad at you for hurting me, right?"

"Okay, sorry, but you still haven't answered my question."

"Which question, Anna?"

"Why your physio schedule changed."

"Because it's my fight."

I was stunned. Did she not want my help? Was being around me that bad for her? And yet, here we were, and she seemed perfectly personable, taking the last strawberry that I was reaching for. Our hands collided, and she dropped the fruit.

"No, you take it," she said softly. Was it a peace offering?

"You probably need it more, with the food here," and I winked at her. Somewhat reluctantly she took it, smiling as she bit into it. I liked her smile. It was still kind of guarded, but we had just been fighting. Well, sort of.

Silence fell between us, and I took that as a cue to leave.

"Stay, please."

"You want me now, but not helping you stand again?"

"I can stand on my own, you know," she sassed me.

"Prove it."

And she did, swinging her legs out of the bed, gripping the edge to help herself stand, swaying a bit as she put more weight on her right leg.

"So why don't you want my help?" I was going to get to the bottom of this.

"Can you dance?"

"Huh?"

"Can you dance?" Okay, there's a point here, and she's using me to make it. I just don't know what it is. Up until this point I only knew that dance was important to her, from the brief conversation I overhead with Oaken.

"I can't dance," I finally admitted.

"Then you can't help. But David can."

"Who's David?" I was very confused.

"He's the master choreographer and dance instructor for our theatre." I blinked. It didn't make things any clearer. So she was learning to dance, from someone who put together dances for a living. "I used to work as a dancer, Anna." And suddenly it all made sense. She was right, I really couldn't help her with that.

"So why didn't you just tell me?" She sat back on the edge of the bed as I spoke.

"Because you weren't listening. You just kept talking and talking and asking the same question."

I had. My cheeks coloured in embarrassment. Maybe if I'd known what to ask—or hadn't been so accusatory—we wouldn't have danced around the topic for so long. I stepped forward—I wanted to hug her so tight for proving wrong and still wanting me around and maybe just to her smile again. Definitely to see her smile. She put a hand out to hold me back, and I flinched. She looked at her hand, then at me. For so long sudden movements like that meant I was going to be hurt. It was instinct for me to shy back.

"Anna, I—"

"No. No, it's okay. I–I just wanted to give you a hug."

"But you shouldn't be scared like that. I would never hurt you like he did."

"Do you want a hug?" Maybe it was better to ask first.

Her face fell, and her voice was quiet, almost afraid. "No."

Maybe she was afraid. Of what, I had no idea. I wasn't sure if it was fear of being hugged, or fear of my reaction to her refusal. I watched her face, trying to figure out what was going on. All I got was a timid smile, and a whole lot of worry. I had to take a softer approach—and no matter her answer, accept it. I still wanted her to be my friend, and I hoped to be one of hers.

"You're sure you don't want a nice, warm hug?"

"I–I am, but… but is it okay to just hold hands?"

"Why would it not be?" I smiled up at her, taking her hand in mind, twining our fingers together.

—∞—

"So—" Joan yawns, interrupting herself. "—auntie Elsa kinda pushed you away there."

"She did baby. It always seemed like that, right up to our big fight."

"The one on the video, right?"

"That's right. Now, if you'll let me get on with the story?" And she punches me in the arm.

—∞—

A few days later I was talking with Elsa again. I was pacing at the foot of her bed, worried about what I was asking, wondering if it was too weird, or just normal concern. My pacing was apparently getting on her nerves.

"Anniken, you're making me restless with all that pacing," but there was a hint of humour in her voice. Somehow that made it harder to speak, not easier. "What are you so worried about?"

"Ever since Hans left—"

"No, Anna, _you_ left _him_." I smiled, despite my anxiety. She was making sure I knew where she stood on that issue with great certainty.

"—the house has been really empty, and this tiny little part of me wanted him back to make it not empty—but I don't listen to it, it's silly—but even with the radio or the TV and whatnot it just feels empty and there's a guest bedroom, and a nice big bed in the master and I feel really bad seeing you have to stay here all the time and so I was thinking maybe you'd like to—because I mean, I don't mean you owe—I mean I owe you, and I thought you might like to—and okay, okay, deep breaths, deep breaths.

"Theresasparebedatmyhouseanditsyoursifyouwantit."

"Anna?"

"Yes?"

"Deep breaths." And we were both laughing. I managed to get breathing under control and after we'd finished laughing I tried again.

"My house feels empty. I have a space in my bed you could fill—I mean a spare bed you cou—"

"Thank you, but no."

"You'd rather stay here?"

"No, but I'd like it if you'd asked me to dinner before inviting me into your bed."

"If I'd what before I— _what?_ "

"You were asking me out, right?"

"Umm, no," I shook my head, blushing. "I was offering you a room."

She smiled.

"But if you like, I guess I could get you dinner before you move in."

"This is all moving so fast." She held a hand over her heart, voice turning melodramatic. "First dinner, then moving in. Next thing I know you'll be asking me to be a father."

I couldn't help but laugh. Then frown. "Why do you get to be the father?"

"Because I'd wear the pants," she stuck out her tongue and for some reason I was very tempted to try and kiss it, just to see what her reaction would be. I think she caught my look. "A real dinner would be nice. How about we take it from there?"

—∞—

"Umm, mom, which one of you was actually asking the other out?" That look on her face is so cute. Joan's doing the finger thing again, pointing in opposite directions.

"I don't know. I think it was me, fumbling over everything like that."

"You're sure auntie Elsa wasn't just leading you on because she _wanted_ you to ask her out?"

"I'm not," I smile, remembering that day. First time I'd asked out a girl, and of course I made a complete mess of it. Looking back though, it's pretty entertaining. And maybe Joan's right, I've often asked that question myself. You always pushed me away, tried to keep me at arms length, but secretly you wanted me. I think you wanted me to break down that wall. You wanted me to prove myself, and I wanted you to be worth it. I did, and you were. And if I tell her about our first date, I'm also telling her about the first time you tried to cook for me—it's only fair.


	15. Problems

Saturday. We're doing the installation at Al's plant now. He makes carpet, and seeing the machines working yesterday was fascinating. Anyway, we're putting in a new set of work platforms beneath the latex vats. Six panels, bolt together. Maurice's design to make installation easier. Eight heavyweight upstands, and two reinforced braces to go across the centre section. It's a very noisy morning now we've removed the old platforms. Me and Kristoff are one team installing the upstands, and Maurice and Audrey are the other. Dynabolts.

It's weird, but even after this long dynabolts remain the best way to anchor something into a concrete floor. We install the upstands one at a time, manhandling them into place, drilling into the factory floor, then hammering in the bolts and torquing them up. We break for lunch, and me and Kristoff sit outside, in the sun, enjoying the view across the back of the city. Al's factory is on a low hill, and you can actually see a fair bit from up here. I like it.

We don't really talk, but I apologize about forgetting our anniversary on Thursday. He understands though, and points out that he put a reminder on my phone for me. I remember something you told me, knowing we'd never get to an anniversary. Why bother celebrating the day it was official? Why not just celebrate each other every day—because every day was special. Is special. A hand waves in front of my face.

"Hey, did I lose you there for a second?"

"I was just thinking about something Elsa said about anniversaries," honesty always works, I've found. Okay, maybe a few white lies to protect someone's feelings every now and then, but by and large the truth is a whole lot less stressful to deal with.

"You can't let her go, can you?" He's not accusing me, but there's a slight hint of sadness or disappointment in his voice. I'm not sure if it's at me, or for me.

"No, but… do you blame me?"

"You know I can't, feistypants. I saw what you had. And anyway, it's about time we got back to work." I check the time on my phone. Yeah, yeah, it's definitely time we get back to work. Not that any of us will complain if our breaks are longer than usual. And Al's not gonna complain either, because this'll be done before Monday, maybe even before the end of tomorrow. We work hard, and we work to our own schedule, but anyone who's seen the final product, on time, and generally under budget, has never had cause to complain.

By the end of the day four of the six platform sections are up, and we lock a pair of jacks underneath to support them through the night. It's time we head home. Joan is suspiciously absent from the house—oh, she is in so much. Then there's a crash from upstairs, and Joan's shouting at us through the house, just like every other 'civilized' teenager. Well, at least she's home. Her hair's a glorious mess when she comes down the stairs—and I think that's my fault, because you never got bedhead like that.

"Umm, mom…" she's nervous, playing with the ends of her hair. This is not a good sign. "Can I… Uh… Can I talk to you, u–upstairs?"

"Dinner in twenty?" I ask Kristoff, heading for the stairs.

"Longer. Think I'll take a shower first."

I nod, following Joan up the stairs and into her room and okay, _this_ I was not expecting. Tina is lying in our daughter's bed, snoring, and possibly drooling. I'm torn between anger, relief, and amusement, because old Weaselly—Westley—Belafont is going to be pissed; but Joan came straight to me; and also because it's funny seeing Tina like that. Joan looks helplessly at me and shrugs.

"They kicked her out. She didn't know where else to go."

"I thought she was grounded—like you're supposed to be." I give her a pointed a look.

"Hey, she snuck in through the upstairs window. I thought someone was going to try and rob us."

"So you rushed upstairs to grab your sword, right?" I'm already facepalming.

She just looks at me sheepishly and shrugs again. It's pretty clear she's completely lost, and doesn't know how she's supposed to handle this. I'm not sure I know either, but I'll give it a shot. They deserve that much. And after dinner I'm giving that bastard Westley a piece of my mind. Yes, I can spare it, stinker. I didn't give you the last piece of it, after all. I'll handle it more tactfully than Kristoff would, anyway. I pull Joan into a quick hug.

"Thank you for coming to me; I know it must have been hard."

"I really couldn't hide it for long," she laughs, hugging me back. "Sooo… I'm off the hook?"

"This time. I'll get started on dinner. Should be done by the time your father gets out of the shower. I'll make extra for Tina, in case she wakes up."

I tell Kristoff what's happened over dinner, and I can see his face shading with anger. He wants to give Belafont a right earful. I won't let him. It's tense, because I know he means well, and I can see he really does want to help, but his bluntness—which as you know is usually is far worse than mine—could well undermine what he's trying to say. I pick up the phone and keep it next to me for a little while, watching the end of the news. I'm putting off doing something hard. I don't like doing it, but I'll have to. I dial the Belafont's number.

"Mrs Bergman?" It's Tina's mother; she sounds out of breath, like she's scared—or maybe she was crying?

"Yes?" Wasn't I supposed to be the one asking questions?

"Have you seen my daughter—she ran away yesterday after Westley was shouting at her."

"She's safe, mrs Belafont. I heard she got kicked out of _your_ house."

"Westley just doesn't understand." Yeah, that doesn't surprise me. I still think his wife should have more say though—unless maybe Tina thought it wasn't safe to stay.

"Has he been hurting Tina?" Maybe it's too direct, but I have to know. The silence at the end of the line is telling. My free hand balls into a fist and I can tell I'm wearing a grim expression by the looks Kristoff and Joan are giving me. Too late for that. If Westley's been abusing his daughter he's going down. I don't care. I'd say everyone needs a father, just not an intolerant bigot like that. And then there are plenty of couples that are either two fathers, or two mothers, and they've raised perfectly normal children. I just don't understand the mindset people like Westley have about gay relationships.

Mrs Belafont is speaking again, and I'm now struggling to pay attention in my anger. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that."

"I told him if he wasn't going to let our daughter come back, I'd leave him." My turn to be speechless. I'd always thought Westley would've married someone pretty but vapid, easily pliable to his schemes. Apparently he didn't, which is even more surprising, all things considered. I can hear someone shouting in the background. Miss Belafont relays the message that Tina's safe, here, and the shouting only increases in pitch. A short apology issues from the speaker, and then the line goes dead. Clearly there's some friction in the Belafont household.

Kristoff looks at me, raising his eyebrows in silent question.

"Mrs Belafont—and why don't we know her name?—wants Tina safe, and back home. Westley clearly doesn't. I just heard them start a shouting match."

"Mom, you said something about him hurting Tink… is he?"

"Well, mrs Belafont didn't actually say, but I think you better ask Tina yourself."

"Why don't you ask her?"

"Because I'm an adult, and right now she might not trust us adults quite so much. You're also her friend—and I trust _you_. And apparently she ran away yesterday, so again, when did she get here?"

"Late this afternoon."

"It doesn't take anywhere near that long to walk from the Belafont's to our place, and you both know it."

"Mom, she hasn't told me where she was, okay. She just kinda climbed in through the window, said she'd been kicked out, and crawled into my bed."

"Okay, okay, I believe you," I take a breath to calm myself down. We'll figure out a way through this. "Did she look hurt?"

"No, just tired."

"Go upstairs," I wave in the appropriate direction. "I'm sure she'd appreciate the company, even if she is asleep. I'll come up and check on you both in an hour or so, okay baby?"

"Okay, I guess—but what are we gonna do?"

"Tina can stay here as long she wants to, but I'm not going to stop her mother visiting or taking her out."

"Just behave while we're at work tomorrow, Snowflake. And if her father comes around, _call us_."

"We will, dad. And I will, I promise. I migh—"

"No hitting." And she frowns at both of us.

Joan heads off upstairs and me and Kristoff settle in to watch some crappy Saturday movie. We just kind of sit and cuddle, occasionally munching on the chips between us. When the movie's over I make my lunch for tomorrow. Kristoff makes his in the morning. I learned long ago that I had to get into this routine or I'd go without lunch at work—though there was a time shortly after I'd started that Kristoff took to packing extra lunches just in case. He always did care about me.

It's maybe two hours after I called Tina's parents. I go upstairs to check on Joan. Her and Tina are standing in the middle of the room, wearing only their bras and pyjama pants. I feel like I'm interrupting, but it's Tina that urges me to stay, turning around slowly so that I can see she's not actually hurt.

"You didn't have to get Joan to ask, miss Bergman, I would've told you myself."

"Well, it's good to know for the future. Joan told you're welcome here, right?"

"She did. And about my mom maybe picking me up—when?"

"I just said if she did, I wouldn't stop her. She never said anything about it really."

"Oh, okay. I feel kinda bad for worrying her like this."

"Like the first time the two of you ran away?" I ask pointedly, fixing her with a hard gaze. "About a fortnight ago, if memory serves."

They both look at me, cheeks colouring in embarrassment and shame. For some reason they can't meet my gaze. I look over at Tina.

"Tina, your mother said you ran away yesterday, and I know it's not far to walk here, so where did you go?" She looks away, gazing at something in the carpet that only she can see. Okay, guess I'm not getting an answer for that yet—but that's more concerning. "I'm just worried about where you were."

"I was safe, just…" Joan moves over to wrap an arm around her, and those crystal blue eyes fix me with a glare. I've hit a nerve somewhere, but I don't even know what it is. I've got to get to the bottom of this, because there might be something worse going on, and I cannot have that. Not in my house. It's already seen enough darkness and horror. The kitchen, eighteen years ago, was enough. I leave our daughter alone with her friend. I pause for a moment, just outside the door.

"If you want to come downstairs in a bit, I'll tell you some more of our story."

"It's not fair bribing her like that, miss Bergman."

"If you want to keep her to yourself, mess Belafont, I'll just tell her tomorrow night."

"Oh." I can hear some hushed whispering behind the door. A moment later it cracks open. Joan peeks out, looking up and down the hall.

"So you sort of accidentally invited auntie Elsa on a date, right?" And before I can protest, she drags me into the room. "And Tina was gonna hear it anyway."

Joan and Tina are lying on their sides, sort of cuddling, or spooning, or maybe trying to use each other as blankets given the way their limbs are draped around. I sit on the floor with my back to the vanity. I'm quietly reminded of how we used to lie sometimes.

—∞—

Elsa was laughing at me, and she was the one that had fallen. On top of me, no less, but that might have been _why_ she was laughing. I really had no idea what I was doing a) dating anyone, and b) dating another woman. She just thought it was funny. Dinner had seemed too stressful to get right, so instead I'd asked her out for lunch. Just somewhere nearby—which turned out to be a mall, with the usual 'healthy' food options.

Extricating myself from the chaos of tangled limbs and fallen crutches, I helped Elsa up, steadying her as she leaned on the crutches. Then I took the time to fix my dress, which might have fallen bit further than off-the-shoulder really should, and then I smoothed out her hair and jacket. Well, it was my jacket, but I'd let her keep it long enough now I basically considered it hers. I still wasn't sure why she wore it, but it somehow looked nice over her pale blue dress with the plunging neckline that seemed to draw attention from every quarter—and more than enough from myself.

We'd worn nice clothes—perhaps too nice—for what was basically a trip to the mall. I felt terribly awkward. I had no manual to work from either. Romance was about feelings, not mechanics. Tough gig for an engineer. I wasn't up to cooking for her, despite our conversation the other day. Or dinner, for that matter. I still felt safer at home after night fell. Another thing to blame Hans for, but in time I got over that. The mall was noisy, but more than anything Elsa seemed to notice my silence—mostly because she'd only ever really heard me talking.

"Are you okay, Anniken?"

I wasn't. Why, I couldn't really say. I felt elated to be out in public with her, but also slightly nauseous because this was all so strange and suddenly real. But I didn't tell her any of that. I just smiled, and she seemed to buy it, but I noticed how guarded she became afterwards. That was my first mistake. Well, second, considering I'd also somehow tripped her while we were walking and she'd used me for a landing pad.

I looked around the options in the foodcourt. It really wasn't a great selection, and nothing looked that healthy—which I knew had to be a consideration for her considering she was a dancer and also recovering from a broken leg caused by me. I spread my hands wide, offering her the selection. I still didn't know anything about what she liked—except for the fruit I brought her—so this was easier to my mind. And that's how on our first date we wound up in the food court eating fish and chips—somewhat fancy, actually, given it was smoked salmon served with lemon and pepper chips. I couldn't let her know I didn't like fish. Which is also what she tried to cook the first time she cooked for me.

I really was an idiot.

Not knowing how to gauge how well the date was going, I felt lost. I couldn't just ask, because that seemed to be against some sort of unspoken rule about these things. I just had some chips, figuring that maybe later I'd fill up at home. I also felt like I had to make some kind of conversation—people went on dates to learn about each other, right?

"So, you're a dancer?"

"I was, until someone hit me with their bike."

"I only hit you because you jumped out in front of me." It was automatic, and true, and I regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

I looked away, down at the table, not worthy of meeting her gaze. I heard her fist bang against the table, and then a loud scrape as she pushed her chair back. Several people nearby turned to look at us. I put a hand out, just catching her wrist. She looked down at my hand as if it was something completely alien. But she stayed seated, so I was willing to call it a win.

"I ruined the date, didn't I?" The look she fixed me with said everything. My shoulders fell and I sighed. I needed to learn tact, and what to say when. "I'm sorry. At least let me help you back to hospital."

—∞—

"That sounds really touchy for Elsa," it's Tina interrupting this time. I can see Joan trying to surreptitiously kick her—probably for interrupting.

"She was, for a while at least. Some times I had to walk on eggshells, and others she was perfectly willing to talk about these things. It took time to figure out why."

—∞—

We wandered back through the mall without further incident, or much talk. It felt wrong, but that was that. My first date with a girl and I'd managed to ruin everything. Or so I thought. Because someone was having fun with the PA, playing a bit of rock. I was singing along, helping Elsa through the crowd.

"…to do with you  
I don't really mind what happens now and then  
As long as you'll be my friend at the end"

"If I go crazy then will you still  
Call me superman"

I turned to my left, wondering who else was singing. It was Elsa, and her voice was amazing. We had a short little singalong as we walked, the tension between us somehow dissolved by this moment of bonding. There was still some tension though, and we still hadn't said much by the time we got back to hospital. I felt like I had to say something though, to apologize for being an ass. Because only then had I realized that my response to Elsa's earlier statement was also an implied question and a sort of oneupmanship thing, and that maybe she wasn't ready to face it yet—or at least she wasn't ready to tell me about it.

"I'm sorry I said that. It was pretty tactless of me."

"It was, but up 'til then we were having fun, right?"

"We were," I nodded, hoping this was some kind of forgiveness. "And I liked hearing you sing." She blushed at that.

"I liked your singing too, Anniken. Very enthusiastic. I would like to see you again."

"What, you thought one bad date was enough to get rid of me?" I couldn't help myself. Honestly, I couldn't. I was lucky that she smiled. I smiled too, blushing slightly, because despite everything I'd managed to make her smile again. It was worth all the touchiness, all the weird looks we got—and even a ruined date—just to see her smile. Even now, all these years later, I can still see her smile. One good thing I can never forget.


	16. Confusion

Tina's stayed here a few nights now, and I'm not sure what we're going to do. Mrs Belafont—whose name I am ashamed to admit I _still_ do not know—wants Tina back. Westley does not. I haven't heard much else really, aside from some angry comments about corrupting his daughter, and thankfulness for protecting her daughter. It's an intractable situation, and I'm fairly sure at this point she will be leaving him. Proof that having money will not be able to buy you everything. I can't help but a feel little sad for him though—I really don't like him, but if things were just a little different he wouldn't have to suffer the way he always has.

Joan and Tina are on the couch with me, watching the news. There's a few violent hotspots, and a high speed chase elsewhere in the country, but not a lot of really newsworthy items. Something about a talking parrot, the second or third generation in the same experiment that used Alex. Must be a slow news day. Joan has to get ready for fencing as well, and I'm not quite sure what to do with Tina in the meantime. I only know how to deal with one teenage daughter—and that's when she's behaving.

"Tina?"

"Yes, miss Bergman?"

"Will you be okay by yourself for a while when I take Joan to fencing tonight?"

"I'll be fine," she pats me on the thigh, smiling. "You worry about us too much."

Maybe she's right, but if I don't worry about them, who will? I'm only trying to keep them safe, after all. She might not be my daughter, but it feels like she should be family. Ohana. That takes me back. What was I, eight? nine? when I knew her. Hawaiian girl, Lilo. She was weirder than me, and came from a broken home. I remember she nearly got taken away by social services once. I frown, trying to remember more about her, but all that springs to mind is that she had a blue dog. I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present. Kristoff calls out from the kitchen that dinner's ready, and all three of us on the couch scramble through the door to the dining room.

Nothing really stands out about the evening, and driving back from dropping Joan off leaves me preoccupied with what we're gonna do about Tina. Hopefully Mrs Belafont can find a place nearby, and she and Tina can live there. Seems unlikely though, and in the meantime I guess we'll just have another guest in the house. I've got the day off tomorrow too, and in the morning—after Westley leaves for work—I'll be stopping in to collect a few of Tina's things from Mrs Belafont. But that's tomorrow.

After she's back home, and after a shower, Joan is pressing me for more story. It's not some great cliffhanger where we left off, but its where things started not adding up. Enough that you actually agreed to check my place out after our date—no obligations on either of us.

—∞—

I was at least smart enough not to try the mall again. Instead, I arranged to meet Elsa at a small cafe in the better—or at least pricier—part of town. It was a nice day for early autumn, the leaves had turned the colour of my hair, ready soon to fall. There was a slight chill in the air, and I really felt it in my low cut dress. That's why I wore the jacket, zipped up to the top. I planned to strategically unzip the jacket at some point during our date, both to gauge Elsa's reaction and also to show her that the scars really were healing—except I really couldn't do _that_ if anyone else was looking at us.

While I was waiting I wound up playing games on my phone. It had been a while since I did that, and I wasn't sure about Elsa's punctuality if I wasn't the one dragging her around, making sure both of us were fashionably late. Well, later than we intended to be. I remember the push and pull of our first dates well, and in all honesty this would have been the perfect time to stand me up. But she didn't. Never. Not once. Sometimes she was late, but she always had good reason.

When I saw her it took my breath away. I'm quite sure what she was doing to those jeans was illegal in seven states, and the blouse—what I could see of it under my old jacket—was an intricately patterned pale blue covered with a snowflake motif. She unzipped the jacket and took the rest of my breath away, her figure so well accentuated by those clothes. She had a slight limp, placing the jacket over the back of her chair before pulling it out.

"It's a nice day to be outside," I opened with something neutral. I had to, really, considering the last time.

Elsa looked past me, craning her neck high. "Not if those clouds keep rolling in."

"Think we should move inside?"

"No," she placed her hand over mine. "The company out here is better."

I graced her with a smile, but wondered why she would rather stay outside with the risk of any rain. Maybe she wasn't like me. Maybe she liked the rain. I asked her as much and she laughed, smiling at me, as if she expected everyone would like the rain.

—∞—

"But you do like the rain, Mom."

"Shush, you," I hold my finger up in an admonishing gesture, and Joan laughs. "I learned to like the rain because she liked it too."

—∞—

"So, would you like something to eat? to drink?" I paused, fishing around in my jacket pocket for my card. "My treat."

"You don't have to, Anniken. I can pay." Her eyes were guarded, and I wondered whether she was trying to be chivalrous or selfish. I couldn't tell.

I stood. "I want to. I'd like to—and while we sit here sipping overpriced coffee or something, I'd like to learn more about you."

"You… coffee?" She gave me a skeptical look. I just shrugged. Coffee was what everyone who went to these places actually had to drink. I didn't care; I'd just order a hot chocolate. I waited for her to make a decision. "A small coffee; and an almond biscuit if they have one, please."

The food was overpriced as expected, but I had the money—I'd spent very little on myself, or at all, when I was with Hans. The server commented on how lovely my friend looked, and asked why she was limping. I considered giving her the whole story, but then just explained she had a broken leg and was having physio, and the server seemed impressed with her fortitude being here at all. If only she knew…

Elsa thanked me as I sat and handed over her items. I had a hot chocolate myself, and a small—and expensive—slice of rich chocolate fudge. Elsa bit off the sides of the almond biscuit, and dunked the now appropriately sized biscuit in her coffee. My first thought was that it was all wrong; only British people did that, and with tea besides. My second thought was to wonder if maybe it was normal wherever she was from—she hadn't yet told me about her past life in Norway. My third and final thought was to stop analyzing what she chose to do with her food, and actually drink my hot chocolate, quickly becoming lukewarm chocolate.

I figured if I stayed quiet she might open a conversation with me, but all that led to was five minutes of silence, each of us taking the occasional drink, or a bite from our food. It left a strange kind of tension between us, and when she looked me in the eye after taking another drink I had to look away, feeling my cheeks flush. She let out a little laugh, but I saw the way she covered her mouth in surprise. More when a sudden gust of wind flicked leaves across our table, one nearly landing in her drink. I gestured towards the interior of the cafe but she shook her head. I gave her what I hoped was an understanding smile.

She finished her drink and stood, pulling her/my jacket on again. I had no idea if the date was already over or she was just restless and needed to stretch. She leaned in, pressing her hands against the table for balance, and gently kissed me on the cheek. So the date _was_ over.

"Today was nice. Thank you." She smiled at me. I brushed my fingertips across my cheek, feeling the ghost of her lips.

"But we didn't even talk about anything." We hadn't. At all. Just sitting in silence eating and drinking.

"I didn't know we had to talk for you to have a nice time." Okay, that was kinda low. But somehow she was right in what she hadn't said. I did have a good time, just being in her company. Maybe, for now, it would be enough. Then she was gesturing for me to stand, to follow her somewhere. Hot and cold by turns, and I couldn't figure out why. She wanted me and yet pushed me away. There was a paradox in there, but never did I think that she didn't have good reason for what she did.

I followed her a short distance down the street. She stopped and leaned against the wall between two storefronts, hands massaging her right thigh. Her lips were set in a grim line and I frowned—I wanted her to see me out, but I didn't want her hurting herself because of it. She caught my look and shook her head softly, offering me a small smile.

"It just hurts sometimes?"

"Yes. Oaken warned it might when I started getting more active." She grimaced but held out a hand, keeping me back. "It will pass. I need to rebuild muscle tone is all."

"Would you like help getting back?" I offered her my hand.

"I took a taxi to that corner"—she pointed to the end of the street—"and walked from there."

"That's cheating."

"How did you get here?"

"Taxi," I blushed, looking away. Pot, kettle, black. She had me on that one, and had me good. I mumbled something about the offer of help still standing.

"You–you said…" damn but she sounded so unsure. What hadn't I been clear about? "Your house feels empty?" Oh, that.

"It does," I nodded. "I–I wanted—I still want—some company. I have a spare room now, and a big bed, and a really old couch, and a working shower and—"

She kissed me on the cheek again. "Hush, Anniken. I did not mean to make you so flustered." I didn't believe that, but I didn't challenge her on it either. "I… I would like to see your room—I mean the spare room you have."

I was tempted to ask what had changed, why it was now she chose to ask about it instead of when I had first offered it to her a few weeks back. Maybe she couldn't stay at the hospital any longer—maybe she was healed enough they _had_ to release her. Maybe she finally got bored of hospital food—though that should have happened in the first few days. Maybe she wanted to spend more time around me—but like I said, she kept pushing me away then pulling me back. Putting those thoughts aside I hailed a cab, opening the door for her before sliding in next to her.

Her hand found mine on the seat, and I felt her squeeze it. She was nervous. So was I—I had no idea what she would think of my place, or… crap, I really had left it in a mess that morning, and I really wouldn't have time to clean anything or even really kick stuff under the bed or towards the walls. She was going to think I was a complete slob. I facepalmed, and she looked at me quizzically, one eyebrow raised in silent question.

"I didn't get time to clean," I explained. "I didn't know you were coming over."

She laughed, a bright, happy sound, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. "It can't be worse than a college dorm."

"You went to college?"

"Dance major." Now I felt even worse, because she was college educated, and here I was sitting in the back seat of a taxi, with nothing more than a few trade certs and a high school diploma. I didn't know what to say, and Elsa was her usual quiet self. I wished it didn't feel so uncomfortable, these silences, but I couldn't help it. I wondered if perhaps I'd been away from other people too long and just couldn't be normal anymore. Not that I was really normal to start with, but maybe that was why I fit in so well with Kristoff and Audrey. All of us were outcasts of some kind, loners, but good at our jobs, and able to get along with people like us.

I led Elsa from the taxi when we reached my house. It still felt odd to call it that, even if it was legally mine after the divorce. We walked slowly up the front path, my hand at Elsa's waist, half supporting her and half holding her close because I was afraid she might run away. She moved slower than usual, taking everything in, I assumed. Unlocking the front door, I led her into the living room, and she commented rather unfavourably about the old couch. Not two steps inside and she was insulting my furniture? It was not an auspicious start, but I bit back my reply, leading her into the kitchen.

She noticed the stain, the slight tide-mark on the floor. Blood was notoriously hard to remove—in the end we sanded the wood back and re-varnished it, but that came later. Here, she stood, frozen, eyes half-closed, pointing at the stain. I could see her lips moving, but could hear no sound. Before I could even move, before I could think on what to say, I felt strong, thin arms wrap around my shoulders and pull me close. I heard a slight sniff as her body pressed almost painfully into mine in all the right places. I shivered, but for once she didn't let go, didn't push me away. I still hadn't figured out why she was like that, and it bugged me, but I just turned my head and rested it against her shoulder, enjoying the moment of peace and love.

"It's okay," I whispered in her ear, my breath teasing strands of platinum from my lips. "I promise I'll never let anything like that happen to me again."

"If you do, and you die, I shall never talk to you again." I couldn't help but laugh at the dark oxymoronic humour there.

I broke from the embrace, took her hand and led her to the stairs. "Would you like to see my bed?"

"So fast," she mumbled, pretending to fan herself.

"You know what I mean," I rolled my eyes, helping her up the stairs. Having only one bed was also going to be an issue if she chose to stay—at least until we could buy another. I didn't know what it might signify to her, but to me it suggested that we might need to take turns on the old couch, beat up as it was. Sometimes I would sleep there, on particularly bad nights, and in my sleep I guess I vented my rage at what had been done to me so many times over the years.

I showed Elsa the guest bedroom first, devoid everything but a few boxes I'd dragged down from the attic the other day. I showed her the bathroom, then my bedroom—the master. It looked like a bomb had gone off in a wardrobe, and that was mostly because I'd had trouble deciding what to wear on our date in the morning. I tried surreptitiously kicking things into more organized piles—or under the bed—but I'm fairly sure she noticed.

"Huh, I was wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"This _is_ worse than my student dorm."

I groaned, looking for an escape, but there was none. Not any left me a shred of dignity at any rate, and in front of a college educated blonde goddess I wanted to have at least some semblance of dignity, to try and look dignified. She fixed me with a knowing smile and I gave up, burying my face in the pillows. She sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing my back.

"You have a very nice house, Anna." Well, that was certainly better. Maybe I could salvage some dignity from this. I rolled over, looking up at her, and whether by accident or design her hand brushed against my breasts, and both of us blushed, her looking away; me trying very carefully to avoid her gaze. It _had_ been an accident, right?

"Would you—" my voice was a high pitched squeak and I cleared my throat.

"May I… may I stay here tonight?" Damn that cute little smile. It got me every time she was scared or worried about something. And her voice, so soft and thready, afraid of being denied what I knew she deserved. I hated hearing that note in it. Especially the last time.

"I'll take the couch."

"It's… it's your bed, Anniken."

"It's yours tonight," I assured her. "Is there anyone you need to call; tell them where you're staying?"

"No," she sighed, inching closer to the edge of the bed, hands tense, gripping the covers. "Not anymore."

"The hospital won't be concerned?"

"I was sleeping in a small hotel. Since our first date. I don't… I got lonely. I thought of you."

"You thought of me?"

She shrugged expressively. "You were always kind to me. Not just polite like the doctors and nurses, or professional like the hotel staff, but kind and warm and even after everything I've done you're still kind to me. I don't understand you, Anna."

I sat up, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and resting my head against hers. "I don't understand you either, Elsa. I'm trying to, but you pull me close one minute then push me away the next, and I can never tell why. It's like we're dancing around something and neither of us knows the steps."

"It's a good metaphor," she smiled. I could feel it in her shoulders and through her body. She seemed to melt a little every time she smiled. I loved it.

"Will you tell me?" She stood so suddenly I nearly fell over. She did, falling backwards across the foot of the bed, bouncing onto the floor. Panic was my immediate reaction.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need a—"

A low groan answered me from the floor, and some foreign words I'm not allowed to repeat. I asked her again if she was okay and she nodded, sticking out her arm so I could help her up, lying her back down on the bed. I was determined to find out what it was that was bothering her so—and why she couldn't tell me—but for now I made sure she was comfortable and then headed down to the kitchen to fetch a drink for the both of us. I came back to find her snoring softly, dozing on my bed. I set her glass down on my nightstand and left, not wanting to disturb her. I turned before closing the door. She looked so peaceful, at odds with my biker jacket, her face relaxed and her hair starting to come loose from her braid. I wanted her to see how beautiful she really was, so from the door I took a picture with my phone camera—my first real picture of her.

—∞—

I could hear Joan's shocked gasp as she realized what picture I meant. It's still here, eighteen years later, taking pride of place on the shelf behind the couch, second only to two sets of wedding photos—mine and hers, and mine and Kristoff's. In that photo I had captured a moment of perfect peace, one that will now last forever. You still have that picture too, don't you? I look up to the sky, questioning the empty air. Of course you do. You asked if you could at least try to look like that at the end, after everything. And you did. I leave the room, leaving Joan and Tina to settle in for the night. I'll find Kristoff. He'll tell me it's okay to be sad about this.


	17. Deception

 

Friday. I've survived another week. It's been chaos recently and now it's time to take a deep breath and let it all out, to once again find my centre. I think Kristoff helped; we're lying here, tangled in the sheets, sweating, breath slowly coming back to us. A lot of the stress has melted away, and I just nuzzle into his chest, enjoying the warmth, the beat of his heart, the sweet smell of his body. In this moment we don't need any words, and he tilts my head back so he can kiss me again. Sometimes we lose ourselves so high we have to bring each other down gently. I tighten my arms around his back and tangle my legs with his. It's a good kiss, and it makes me forget all the problems we've had throughout the week.

I can feel my body spread out languorously across the sheets, falling away from Kristoff. I don't think I've quite come down yet, my mind just outside my body, not quite in sync. I like it, the feeling of weightlessness. It's how Elsa made me feel, and I'm glad Kristoff can make me feel that way sometimes too. His hands roam around my body, and he tickles my stomach—a soft caress just enough to bring me down. Not quite down, but enough that I feel like drawing the sheets over us and snuggling into his arms. I'm tired, but it's a good tired, a happy tired; the tiredness of the recently sated. I didn't realize just how badly I needed tonight.

But I sleep, calm and happy, bound in my lover's arms. I dream of her, and I dream of him. Happy dreams. I know the morning I'll forget them, but I've come to accept them. Only now, only this half-lucid state between sleep and wakefulness am I aware of such things. The tendrils of deeper sleep wrap me in a cocoon outside of time, and my body rests as if I were a child again.

I blink slowly, awake, and turn to look at the clock on the nightstand. Ten-thirty… ish. About right for a Saturday. Kristoff's already up, and I think I can hear the TV downstairs, meaning Joan must be up as well. I pull on something reasonably presentable and laugh at my hair in the mirror. You'd appreciate it, I know. Stinker. Looks like my hair slept better than I did—and I slept pretty damn well. Best I have in a long time actually. I make my way to the kitchen and decide I'll just have toast and a cup of coffee for breakfast. Still decaf—or maybe I'll make myself a hot chocolate. It's the weekend after all, I can mix things up a bit.

Tina went on Thursday night, her mom swung past to pick her up. They're both staying at her grandparents now, so I know they're safe and I guess reasonably happy. Tina seemed excited, Joan… less so. I saw them in the same bed on Thursday morning, so I wonder—but I won't pry. If she needs to, I know Joan will tell me in her own time. So it's just us in the house today. I can see some cloud from the kitchen window, and I get the feeling it might rain this afternoon. I'd like that.

I flop down in one of the single seaters, careful not to spill my hot chocolate or send my toast flying—though it does dance dangerously close to the edge of the plate. And over my light breakfast I tell Joan more of our story; of when I discovered you weren't telling me the whole truth.

—∞—

I was back at work in earnest, and I discovered that in my absence Kristoff had hired a fourth man for our crew. He went by the name of Maurice, and had a three month old daughter. Kristoff quietly told me that he'd been looking for work for nearly six months, and because of his low level of experience to qualifications he couldn't find anything suitable. But Kristoff saw his potential, especially for drafting and process design. I was impressed by what I saw, and I helped guide him around on his first few days.

We were doing a big build, and were working evenings to meet the deadline, so I didn't see much of Elsa that week. We alternated between the couch and the bed until she managed to arrange delivery of a new bed and a new couch. The bed I could understand, but I thought my couch was alright. Until I sat on the new one and she pushed me over. Now that was a comfortable couch. She started commenting about how well it matched the other furniture and the style of the house.

"You are _so_ gay," I teased.

She responded with a devious smile, kissing me on the cheek, and making me blush. Her next question was serious. "What about you?"

"What about me?" My had drawn a blank because I hadn't been asking any questions.

"A-are _you_ gay?" Dammit, she sounded so cute when she was nervous. Okay, if I wasn't gay—and at this point I was more confused that anything else—she was turning me gay. And I liked it.

"Well, I'm going out with you, aren't I?"

She sighed. "Maybe you're just leading me along, like Yuriko did."

How could she say that? How could she even _think_ that about me? I bit back an angry reply about my honesty and fell back on the couch. Just because I'd never seen any marks on her skin didn't mean she couldn't have been hurt just as deeply as I was. There were different kinds of hurt, after all. I patted the cushion next to me, and she sat, reluctantly, shuffling away from me slightly. I wondered why she would say that to me, but I didn't actually _say_ anything. I closed my eyes and let out a breath, placing my hand between us—she could take it if she wanted.

I felt long, thin fingers twine with mine, and I felt her leaning in to my shoulder. "I have to go to the hospital tomorrow."

"More physio?"

She hesitated—never a good sign—then simply nodded.

"Oaken treats you well. And is David helping?"

"He is helping, I'm getting most of my flexibility back now. Two months—six weeks if I'm lucky—and I might even be able to take to the stage again."

"That's incredible!" It was. I was happy for her, because knowing about her life as a dancer, having heard her aspirations, I knew it would be a big step, and it would be good for her to get out there again. I couldn't really understand how her excitement seemed so dull compared to mine on this matter.

"It's still two months away, Anna. I don't know if I'll be ready."

"You will be," I kissed her on the cheek, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. I wanted her to know I was willing to support her every endeavour in returning to a career I had nearly ruined for her. It was the least I could do.

The next day, around lunch, I got a call from the hospital. The physio department was asking if I had any concerns or had had any problems with my ankle. I told them I hadn't. Remembering that Elsa had somehow missed her alarm that morning, I asked if she'd managed to make her appointment on time. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone—I had a feeling that perhaps they remembered I was the one who had snuck in and watched her that time. I heard the clicking of a keyboard in the background, as if something was being searched out.

"What is your relation to miss Frostad again?"

"Concerned friend?" I tried. I elaborated. "I'm the one that brought her in when she got hit—I just want to make sure she's doing okay."

More typing in the background, and what sounded like a call on another line.

"Hmm, that's odd. Her next appointment is on the sixteenth."

"There's nothing today?" I frowned, trying to put things together. "She sees Doctor Oaken."

"Oaken works at St. Claire's on a Thursday." There was no way Elsa was at physio then. I nearly dropped the phone.

"Thanks." I hung up, angry and confused.

Why was she lying to me? What made her think she needed to keep this a secret? I shook my head, leaning back against the wall of the workshop. I'd gone outside to take the call, and now it was over Kristoff wandered out next to me. He must have seen my look.

"Something wrong, feistypants?" he didn't use my nickname much back then, but when he did it meant he was concerned. Times change.

"It's Elsa."

"Did something happen?"

"I'm not sure," I shrugged. "She told me she had a physio appointment today, but they just rung me, and I kinda asked if she made her appointment because she missed her alarm and that's totally not like her and her next appointment isn't even until next Tuesday and even Oaken doesn't work there—"

"Anna?"

"—on a Thursday so she _can't_ have any appointments there today but she's still going to the hospital right and it's not like she'd try to run away because she seemed to happy to stay in the spare bedroom and—wait, did you say something?"

"Breathe."

"Okay, okay. Elsa went to the hospital, but not for physio, because they told me she doesn't have any appointments today, so why?"

"Why don't you just ask her when you get home?"

But it wasn't that simple. I couldn't just confront her like that. The last time I'd done anything like that we'd had a massive argument that led to me saying things I nearly didn't get a chance to regret. Then I'd confronted Hans, and everyone knows how _that_ turned out. I could try subtlety, but I knew it wasn't my strong suit. And if _I_ asked, well, Elsa would ask how I knew she wasn't there that day. Maybe if I asked something neutral; something about her day over dinner—but I had to be smart, to somehow catch her out. I was going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

As long as I didn't wind up driving her away, I would continue my investigation until I uncovered the truth—and no matter what it was, I would support her. I wanted her to know she didn't have to hide anything from me, in the same way I never hid anything from her. Trust was a street that went both ways, but I felt like there was a roadblock on her side of it. I would find a way around it, and eventually she would have to tell me what it was all about. I did find out, a few weeks later—but not before she tried cooking for us. If I didn't love her—and hadn't been obsessed about making amends—that meal might have been a deal-breaker.

—∞—

"Was auntie Elsa's cooking really that bad?" Joan raises a quizzical eyebrow at me from the couch.

"Yes." And if we're perfectly honest, it never improved either, even when you got tips from Kristoff.

"Is my cooking better than hers?"

"Also yes."

"…but not by much?"

"You can definitely bake better, but I think your father's the only real cook in this house."

"At last, some recognition!" This coming from the man himself, currently in the kitchen. I laugh—he knows he's much more appreciated than that, but sometimes it's just funnier to play along.


	18. Cooking

I found an old picture of you the other day, and I can't believe I forgot about this one. You were so sad after you lost your hair I thought it would cheer you up. You remember, right—and trying to get the mirrors on just the right angle so you could see what I'd done. God I loved your laugh that day, it had been so long since I last heard it. Yeah, it's the picture where I drew the smiley face on the back of your head. I think I need to show Joan so that she knows even later, towards the end, you still had some light in your life.

Right now though, I'm just gonna lie on the couch, my head in Kristoff's lap, and pretend like I'm not falling asleep. I've already made my lunch, and showered, so I really should be in bed, but it's Sunday night so there's always family time. Even if Joan is texting Tina more than watching the movie. I try to poke her with my foot but can't quite reach from the couch. Kristoff gives her a pointed look which she only just seems to notice, putting her phone down rather reluctantly.

"I think Tink's as bored as I am."

"Well, it is late enough you could be in bed, young lady," I tease. She shoots me a dirty look. I shrug, snuggling up against Kristoff as he rubs my shoulder.

"Five bucks says your mom falls asleep before the movie's done," he mock whispers.

"Hey!" I roll just far enough to look up at him.

"Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong." I hate that smug little smile sometimes. He knows he's right, and he knows I can't do anything about it. I cross my arms and turn back to the movie.

Of course I fell asleep on the couch. Later I can half feel Kristoff carrying me to bed, and I sleepily recall the times I used to do that for Elsa. Monday morning is nothing special, and I blink a little sleep from my eyes as I inspect another coupling in the tank farm at Naveen's factory. More than two dozen tanks, each with three or four line couplings—infeed, vent, gas, and usually overflow as well. We've got a boom lift and some scaffold set up.

I put the c-spanners down for a second and itch beneath my harness. If it was comfortable though, it'd be too loose. I'm hooked back to the boom lift for this tank, so if I fall it'll be embarrassing and something of a wait to get me down, even with Kristoff as my standby down there. Best not to fall, and if it doesn't feel safe, don't do it. Simple, really. I pick the c-spanner back up along with its partner hanging from my belt and undo the next coupling. Seal's worn, and I shout the size down to Kristoff so he can note it down along with the tank number. We'll swap roles after lunch, and we should be completed with the inspection by the middle of tomorrow.

Being a standby is both tense and boring. There's a little tension because if something goes wrong, you're the first responder and responsible for initiating the rescue plan. Boring, because if all goes well, nothing will happen and you'll never need that rescue plan. The day ends without incident, and Kristoff gently nudges the boom lift next to an outlet so we can charge it overnight. We make a quick stop at the workshop to see how Maurice and Audrey are getting on, and if Maurice needs any materials picked up tomorrow—he does, so we'll leave him the van in the morning and use the car to get to Naveen's plant.

At home it's my turn to cook. I just really don't feel like cooking tonight. What the hell, we haven't had takeout in a long time.

"Hey Joan, how do you feel about pizza tonight?"

"I guess," she shrugs at me. "Meatlovers?"

"And you, scruffy?" I give my husband a questioning look.

"Hey, I am not"—he can see his reflection in the darkened window out here—"hmph. Something fancy-ish. No seafood."

"I'll ask, then. Garlic bread?"

"Of course." This from both of them. Here we don't order pizza without getting at least two loaves.

It doesn't take long to place the order, and about half an hour later—because delivery guarantees, right?—we're scoffing down slices of pizza and garlic bread while sitting in the living room. It's been a while since we had dinner in here too, and when we're done Joan collects all our plates and washes the day's dishes. I guess she's trying to earn those last few things from her room back. That, or trying to get un-grounded for running away. I'm tempted, but I think maybe another week of restrictions will let it really sink in; that should make it one calendar month she was grounded for.

Later, I'm sitting in Joan's room, and the radio is on the classic rock station. Absolutely (Story of a Girl). Man, that takes me back, and for a moment I'm quiet as I remember Elsa's smile. She was sad and lonely, and sometimes, yes, she hid from the world… but when she smiled. I shake my head sadly. When you smiled it lit up the sky. I can't help feeling like that. Then Joan prods me and reminds I'm meant to be telling _her_ about Elsa, not just wandering through a house of memories.

—∞—

Monday… I'm fairly sure it was the following Monday, quite wet too. I remember getting soaked just walking to the door. We'd been working at Naveen's factory—even back then, it's been a long term thing. I barrelled into the door full tilt, nearly knocking it from its hinges. I closed it behind me rather more quietly.

"Hey, Elsa!" I shouted through the house to be heard over the rain. "I'm gonna have a shower. Did you want to order out for dinner?"

A platinum braid swung round the doorway into the kitchen and she smiled at me. "Not so loud Anniken, I'm right here." She wrung her hands and looked kind of nervous. Only then did I notice the apron, and I was about to comment when she spoke further. "I–I thought I might cook something for you, you have been so nice to me, letting me stay here."

"I look forward to it. Do I have time for that shower?"

She looked at the living room clock, then at me, then shrugged. "If you don't take too long."

I hurried up the stairs, stripping off as I went. It was only us, after all, and she was busy in the kitchen anyway. I wondered what kind of cook she was. Also what she might cook for me—I wondered if maybe it might be something special from her homeland. I showered quickly—well, what passed for quickly for me—and then rather than getting some regular clothes on I thought I'd dress it up a little for Elsa. If she was going to make the effort to cook for me, then I'd make the effort to look nice for her.

A rich turquoise evening gown was my choice. I'd worn it only once before, when Hans had graduated the academy. I pushed that memory aside and inspected myself in the mirror. I think I was blushing a little, because the front had a rather lower cut than I recalled, and the back was completely open. The sleeves were just as short, but they had a quirky little motif on them that I really liked. I pinned my hair up, ummed and ahhed for a while, then decided I'd have it down and loose. It looked better with the dress, but I still felt a little exposed. And if Elsa looked at me from just the right angle she'd be able to see my scar, and then some.

I slipped out of the gown for a moment to pull on a lacy black camisole. I looked at myself in the mirror again after pulling the gown on once more. Much better. I didn't hear any shouts, but I did hear footsteps coming up the stairs and a soft knock at my door.

"It's okay, I'm dressed." I heard the door creak open.

"You take so lo—Wow." I turned around and I swear she was struck speechless.

"I guess I dressed up fancy enough then."

"Anna, you look gorgeous."

"Thank you," and I felt bold enough to kiss her on the cheek as I walked past. "So, you wanted to take me to dinner?"

Rain pelted down especially hard at that moment, pounding against the roof. I flinched. She smiled at me, taking my hand and leading me down the stairs. Thunder cracked and rumbled making me jump and her laugh, and I wondered if winter hadn't come early to try and destroy our first special home meal together. Putting an arm around my shoulder Elsa led me into the dining room and sat me down. Cutlery was in place, but no food yet.

Elsa disappeared into the kitchen, coming back a moment later with two plates each holding what I considered to be a decent amount of food. More than decent. She found a pair of wineglasses and poured us a little. It really was quite romantic. Until I actually _looked_ at my food. At that moment I resolved to just grin and bear it. It couldn't have been as bad as it looked. It was only fish, after all. And vegetables. Even if they were a little burnt.

Sitting on the other side of the table with her own plate—which looked pretty much the same as mine—Elsa gave me a weak smile. I got the feeling she didn't actually cook all that often, for herself or otherwise. I speared a piece of what looked like potato on my fork and raised it to my lips. Elsa was almost comically covering her face, with both hands, and I'm fairly sure trying not to breathe lest she influence my judgement.

"Well, it tastes like potato," I shrugged, taking a quick sip of the wine. The burn of the alcohol helped.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" Elsa was only just peeking out from behind her hands.

"A little undercooked, I think. Maybe the veggies could have been diced a little finer." I hated the way her face fell then. I hated myself for it, but I had to be honest. I tried to soften the blow. "Do you cook much?"

"I've always had to cook for myself. Especially at college."

I tried humour. "I thought college students lived on coffee and instant ramen."

She just stared at me, this terrible crestfallen look on her face and I couldn't bear to watch anymore. The one time she wasn't trying to push me away and I kept hurting her. Even trying to fix things just made it worse. My appetite was gone—I was pissed off for being so insensitive, and really, the wine had been the best thing I tasted that night. I stared forlornly down at my fish. It looked dry and flaky. Was it _over_ cooked? Reluctantly I took my fork up in one hand and cut off a small slice of fish. For her, I told myself, looking across the table. I had to do at least one thing right.

I chewed. It really was quite dry. I could feel it almost flaking apart on my tongue. I grimaced and tried to hide it. I'd swallowed worse than this; and this I was doing for someone I loved. It couldn't be that hard. Except it caught in my throat and I gagged, nearly retching, and I had to down half the wine in my glass to get it down. Then I did an odd little burp from all the bubbles and I tasted it again. I really regretted that, and it made my eyes water. Elsa looked like she was on the verge of either being absolutely crushed or laughing hysterically.

"It tried to kill me," I croaked out, my voice a hoarse whisper. I drained the rest of my glass. "Also, I have to tell you something."

I beckoned her closer so I could whisper in her ear. "I don't like fish. Sorry."

Elsa slammed her hands against the table, making me jump. My chair squeaked as it slid back an inch. Burying her face in her hands, elbows resting on the table, Elsa shook with silent sobs. At least, I thought they were sobs. I heard an odd sound come from her. Something crossed between a giggle and a snort. And then suddenly she was laughing so hard she was crying. She looked up and I could see the tears in her eyes, but I could also see her smile.

"You don't like fish?"

I nodded, and she continued to laugh. I was growing a little concerned, given the continuing hysterical laughter from across the table. Eventually the laughter died down, and she had an odd little hiccough until she sipped at her wine.

"I wanted to do something really nice for you, and I thought you'd like fish, and so I looked up this recipe for smoked salmon and thought it was perfect and it'd be a great surprise for you to come home to and… and…"

"And you forgot to ask if I liked fish?"

"And I forgot to ask if you liked fish." She sighed, facepalming. "I am such an idiot. Anniken, do you forgive me?"

"Umm, what?" I shook my head in confusion. As far as I knew there wasn't anything she needed to be forgiven _for_.

"For making you eat fish. I saw those faces you made, and I'm sorry you thought you had to do that."

"I'm sorry too," I winked at her. "That fish tried to kill me. And I did it for _you_ , Elsa. I—"

"You tried. You tried it even though you hated it. I have never known anyone quite like you Anniken."

"Thank you?" that really came out as more of a question than it should have.

"It was a compliment, Anna. I really do appreciate that you at least tried the salmon."

"It's very dry."

She cut a slice of hers off, chewed, and swallowed. "Huh." She frowned. "That is kinda dry."

I laughed as she reached for the wine. "The vegetables were mostly okay though."

She gave me a little grin and gestured towards the kitchen. "I won't be too insulted if you want to make something else."

"It's alright," I shrug, pouring myself a little more wine. "I kind of lost my appetite—but because I kept thinking I was insulting you, not because of the fish."

"I wouldn't have blamed you if you said it was the fish." She finished by giving me a wry smile. I smiled back, and did my best not to taste the slightly undercooked vegetables I'd been served. I wasn't going to cook anything else, but I made sure to have a big dessert that night. Of course she stole half of it.

—∞—

"You know mom, that doesn't sound like _that_ much of a disaster."

I look Joan straight in the eye. "Baby, you never tasted her cooking."

"I guess I never will either," I can see a sad smile slowly forming on our daughter's lips. "Does it make sense to miss someone you've never met?"

Oh, how I wish it didn't. I was always afraid telling her about you would do this, but she deserves to know. She really does. I don't give her an answer, I just lie on the bed and give her a great big hug. She understands.

"So, was auntie Elsa's cooking always that terrible?"

"No," I smile to myself. "And that was the worst part. She wasn't a _terrible_ cook, just plain bad. So yeah, some things were better than others, and she could bake a couple of fancy Norwegian desserts, but other than that it tended to be rather messy, but not completely inedible. She made a stew once. It kept for six months."

Joan's just staring at me. I smile at her and leave the room.

"It wasn't edible, but it kept for six months."


	19. Memories

It's been a long week, it's rained off and on too. Nothing really happened though, so I'm feeling like I should do something, lazing on Elsa's couch on a Friday afternoon. I have the day off because I managed to put my back out last night. Yes we were, and no, we didn't. Kind of ruined the mood. I saw the doctor this morning—I'm better about that these days—and he recommended I rest for today, then try and get as active as I could tomorrow. Apparently exercise helps alleviate the symptoms. It should keep me active too. I'll try walking the block in the morning.

Today though—I won't say no to a rest day. We haven't be working overly hard at the plant, but I get to have the house to myself and it's been a while since I had that kind of freedom. For a while I just lie back, thinking of you, and all the good times we shared. I even flick through the pictures on my phone. We really did do a lot and, whoa, hey, I don't remember that one. You've just stepped out of the shower and you're not even really wearing that towel. Did you pose for me for that shot, or did I just catch you in the moment? I try to think back but I don't get anything. It pains me to think I've forgotten anything about our time together, but I have. Eighteen years is a long time to remember every little detail—and you'd probably remember things differently to me anyway.

I smile and wave lazily at the ceiling, lying back on the couch. "I miss you, Elsa."

I'm not… I'm not sad though. Not this time. I really do miss her, but I've mostly managed to accept that she's not here anymore, and that I can take solace in having known her. It's not always easy to make that distinction though, and emotions often don't obey logic. But for today I think of her, and more than anything, I'm happy. I can remember all our good times, and though I know there were bad times too, they don't bother me so much.

I blink and take in a deep breath. The sun has moved visibly—at least, the shadows have—but I can see it darkening and I think I hear the distant rumble of thunder. I look at the time and it looks like I've been dozing for about an hour. My back feels much better too, but that might just be the painkillers I took earlier. I shift around on the couch, experimenting. No, my back really does feel okay right now. But now I'm bored and need something to do, and the house is a little too clean to bother dusting or vacuuming or anything. Hmm.

I take a chance and head for the stairs, retrieving my laptop from our room. Sitting back down on the couch I open a blank document. Maybe I'll write something. A wicked grin crosses my lips and I blush. Just because I didn't finish last night doesn't mean I didn't _want_ to. Maybe I'll write something _naughty_. I rub my hands together in glee and hover over the keyboard. I frown at the screen. Damn it, I have no idea where to start. Then I start thinking about us, and about Kristoff, and about all things we've done together in bed.

I'm not getting any inspiration, but somehow one hand has found its way into in my pants. You know what? I don't care. I've got at least a few hours before anyone gets home, and the run of the entire house and—ooooh, I know, I'll take a bath. A nice, hot, _relaxing_ bath. No one has to know what's so relaxing about it—unless you're still watching me, that is. I give the roof a devilish wink. I really do wonder if Elsa would still watch and then I think about if she saw me and Kristoff and now I really don't want to know. But I'm still gonna take that bath.

A little later, lying in the bath, and I am now _very_ relaxed. It's warm, not hot, but that's just about right. Especially with the bubbles. I slip down the back of the bath, trying just to float there. It's a pity the tub's small enough that my knees are up around my ears at this point. There's just no way to get all of me under water here. Sometimes I really do wish we'd gone for a hot tub—then again, rather less useful for bubble baths.

I remember there were a few times we both tried fitting into the tub. And then I have to remember the times we _had_ to. When you could hardly walk. Or even stand. I remember sometimes you'd rest your chin on my shoulder and just talk—not because you wanted to, but because the talking helped me know you were still there those times. I remember washing your hair too—before you lost it, of course. I know that one was hard on both of us. I also remember a handful of times when you asked me to… well, because you were worse than dog tired, but still wanted some. Just to feel any kind of happiness.

I know I said remembering the bad times didn't hurt—but I was wrong. I can feel a sting in my eyes, and its not from the soap. I know this feeling—I know have to let it happen. It's okay to be sad sometimes. I blink up at the suddenly blurry light and I can feel the tears slowly rolling down my cheeks. There's a hole inside of me, and it's shaped just like you. Why… why did you have to die so soon? Just one mo—No. No! Not if it means giving up Joan. I can hold on to this sadness. I can let the tears flow. But I can't keep holding on to you. Not now—not if it means I. _We_. Not if it means we lose our beautiful daughter.

I take a deep breath and gently dab my cheeks with the towel. Maybe I have a few tears left, and maybe I really do want to cry about losing Elsa—but I also really want a hug, and not to be alone. Whose idea was it to take the day off anyway—oh, right. I can only smile ruefully at my luck, and then I wonder if this kind of sadness—buried somewhere deep in memory—was why I stopped taking baths.

Nope.

It's because of that time you slipped, caught me, and I chipped a tooth against the goddamn taps over there. I can't help but smile because I remember the panic you were in seeing the split lip and bit of tooth, and I didn't seem to notice because you were sprawled on the floor and I was too worried that _you_ might be hurt. I close my eyes and remember with a smile. Both of us too concerned about the other to notice our own injuries—even if yours was just a sprained wrist and a bloody nose. We made a great pair in the emergency room that day.

Well, the bath is cold now, so I step out onto the mat, pulling the plug on the tub and reaching for my towel. Dry enough—not leaving puddles where I step—I throw on a robe and collect a few things that really shouldn't be seen by prying eyes. Not that Kristoff doesn't know, but I'd like to keep Joan innocent of these things for at least a little while longer. Maybe I'm a little overprotective, but then there's also the fact that these ones are mine. And now shut away safely.

But that's just running on autopilot. I'm still sad. I still want a hug. I still want not to be alone. I'm tired. With my eyes struggling to stay open I lie against the duvet, wet hair on the pillows. I close my eyes and try not to dream of you.

* * *

"Hey, you okay?" I can feel a hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me awake. I know that voice.

"I got sad." I won't lie to my husband.

"Thinking about Elsa again?" but there's no judgement there. He just scoops me up in his arms and rests my head against his chest. I can hear his heart, clear and vital. I can smell work on his shirt, the tang of ozone and steel. Working on something pretty big then. But there's also his smell, a musk like something wild and untameable, but it's mysterious instead off-putting. I close my eyes as I feel him cradle my head and my horribly tangled hair. "You'll be okay, just take your time. I'll still be here when you get back."

Wait, was he expecting me to go somewhere? Also, wait, if he's here, shouldn't Joan already be home? Did she try to wake me?

"Is Joan home?" my words are slightly sleepy as I look up into his eyes. Kristoff smiles down at me.

"Joan's cooking dinner now. She checked on you when she got back from school; said she didn't want to wake you, you looked happy."

"Maybe I was. I dreamed of her. I think I dreamed she and Elsa actually met each other." Kristoff just pulls me closer. He knows how much a dream like that hurts. I take a deep breath, not really sure of how to continue. Somehow I don't have to.

"How about I just lie here for a little while and you can tell me about if you feel up to it." He winks at me. "Then dinner."

" _Then_ dinner?"

"Well, Joan should have set off the smoke alarm by then."

"Kristoff!"

I can see the smile behind his eyes, and how hard he's trying to keep a straight face. Oh, I so needed that. I reach up and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I kiss him. Once. And again.

"So, you wanted to take me to dinner?" I stand up slowly, stretching.

"I hear the chef's not so bad." Kristoff stands next to me, and like the traitor he is, tickles my exposed belly.

"Hey! And that's _my_ daughter you're talking about."

"Oh, so she's _your_ daughter now?"

"Between the hours of six and eight," I wink at him. "And 'til ten on Wednesdays."

"Oh, good, because it's only five-thirty." Of course I looked at the clock. 6:02. _Liar_. He smiles at me. "And you might want to put something else on so you don't scar her for life."

"Hey!"

"Well, I don't mind if you only want to dine in your bathrobe, but I think she might—you know how teenagers are these days." And I can only smile, because he's right. I step over to the wardrobe. "Need any help there, feistypants—back not giving you any trouble?"

"It's actually okay for now. And keeping moving should help me anyway, right?"

"That's right. Keep moving." He leans in to whisper in my ear as I'm pulling my bra on. " _Doctor's orders_."

A few minutes later, and showing some decorum, I am now dressed. I don't know what Joan's cooking, and Kristoff has thus far neglected to mention it too. I'm suddenly very suspicious, leaning around the bottom of the stairs to see what's going on in the dining room. The door's shut. Now, what could be going in there? There is of course only one way to find out.

On the table sits a—well it looks like a giant pretzel. Only one leg tho—oh, I know what it is, but where did she get the recipe?

"Internet," comes a whisper in my ear. Thank you, Reindeer King.

"You made _kringle?_ " I half shout into the kitchen.

"For dessert. No touching," Joan leaned out around the partition, hair a in a tidy updo, hidden by a chef's hat—also, where did she get that on such short notice?—then she smiles at us. "Sit; it's just about ready."

When she places a plate in from of me the first thing I notice is that it's slightly burnt—but only slightly. There's a salad. And possibly what were crutons. Bit smaller now. And the meat is in the shape of a fish, but it certainly doesn't smell like seafood. She's smiling at us. Obviously there's a little story here.

"So it was just going to be stuffed chicken and potatoes but I thought that'd be like totally boring for a Friday night and anyway I also thought maybe you could use a little cheering up, mom, so I broke the crutons, turned the bird into a fish and on second thought made the potatoes a salad."

I can't help but smile at the high energy delivery. It sounds like me, and I love it. She looks like you—like us, because Kristoff's nose and my slightly rounder face—but she isn't us. Not a one, and yet I think she's got the best of all three of us. She's the reason I've held onto you for so long, but she's also the reason I had to let you go. I know you'd understand. I also think you'd quite enjoy her cooking. After all, _that_ has never tried to kill me.


	20. Floodgates

We went to the park on Sunday, met up with Belle and Adam. She wanted to talk about college, and he wanted to get out of their apartment for a while. It had to rain, so we took shelter in a little pavilion while it passed. Joan started asking too many questions—I'm thinking she was probably nervous about just waiting there—but Adam shut her down as gently as he could. We had planned for a picnic lunch, but the rain never stopped, just lightened up a little, so we had to call it a day. Hmm… what else?

Oh, yes, that's right. Mrs Belafont called in yesterday to thank us for taking care of Tina last week. I finally managed to get her name too—Cara. Fletcher now, not Belafont. She actually seems quite personable, and quite smart, so I'm still not sure why she would have married old Weaselly—Westley—Belafont in the first place. Eh, I'm not gonna pry, and that door's probably better left unopened.

In other news, work has been pretty light this week, but Al apparently has something big lined up for us on Friday afternoon. I get a feeling it's one of those big beamers that's been giving him trouble for a while now. Could be the Jute roller too, come to think of it—pneumatics need a bit of a tidy up there. That's later in the week though. Today's only Tuesday, and Joan's out at fencing right now. Kristoff's in the kitchen doing the dishes, and I'm here in the bathroom folding and putting away fresh towels. Friday afternoon seems so far away now, but I can still feel a twinge of sadness coming in here. I'm alright though, Kristoff helped me work through it on Saturday morning while we had a nice lie in and just talked.

Back down in the living room I check the clock and its nearly time to collect Joan from fencing. I tell Kristoff I'm going and he waves me off. The drive is pretty normal, cross town traffic much, much less this late at night. I get to the practice hall in time to see Joan standing outside, clutching her sword, looking disappointed. That's right, the grand melee is soon, and I've told her she still can't go. I have to stick to my guns on this one too. Joan throws her kit onto the back seats then buckles up on the passenger side. I can also see she's guarding her left side.

"You okay, baby?" Maybe my voice is a little too concerned for what's probably something minor, but I can't help myself.

"It just stings. Quarter-staves suck. News at eleven."

"Okay, okay, I'll wait 'til we're home—but then you owe me the full story, deal?"

"Deal," she's looking out the window, back at the hall. Her voice is heavy when she speaks again. "I'm still banned from the melee, aren't I?"

"You are, and you know why."

"This sucks."

And I don't think the rest of that conversation really needs to be mentioned, but suffice to say we were still fighting when we got to the front door. Kristoff opened the door for us, then just stood there, pointing at Joan, then me.

"You, shower; you, in here."

Kristoff takes me into the dining room and makes me sit. Upstairs I can hear the shower running. Kristoff fixes me with a disapproving look. Maybe I deserve it—I really shouldn't be fighting with Joan. Or anyone, for that matter. But I still have to make her see that what she did was wrong, and that severe actions have equally severe consequences. I mean, does she really _know_ what she put me through that night? I wish could explain it to her in exacting detail—or wish that if she somehow has children they're exactly like her. I can't right now, she's in the shower. Instead, I stay seated, taking a deep breath, looking up at Kristoff as comes back with a mug of something.

Mmm, chocolate. He holds it just out of my reach so I have to pout.

"Only if you stop fighting, okay?"

I look at the mug of hot chocolate. I look at him. I look up at the ceiling, the shower still hissing away upstairs. I sigh and hang my head in shame. He's right. I don't hate him for it, but sometimes it's annoying how right he often is. Then again, he's the order to my chaos. It makes sense. And he makes a mean hot chocolate. With marshmallows.

"It was about her going to the grand melee, right?"

I nod.

"I know we said she couldn't go, and we've kept up with having her grounded for a month, but this thing is pretty big, Anna. It only happens once a year."

"I know, I know," it's hard to keep the sadness and frustration from my voice. "I know how much it means to her—and this would be her first, too."

"But you want to make the punishment hurt, so she remembers," Kristoff reaches down and squeezes my shoulders. "Just be careful you don't hurt yourself too."

"It's too late for that."

"Well, maybe she could _earn_ it back—like we did with the stuff in her room?"

"It'd have to be pretty big." Wait, am I just agreeing to this because I want to see Joan happy?

"She's got two weeks." Not really. There's a lot of prep work involved, so we'd have to make the decision soon. Very soon indeed. Damn it, I just don't know what to do here. I can't tell if I'd be a good parent for saying no, or a bad parent for letting her go. I have to think about this. Stalling, I drink some more of the hot chocolate, trying to look thoughtful. I'm pretty sure Kristoff can see right through me at this point, but he doesn't press the issue. I decide it's probably best to table it for now.

"I just don't know. How about we pick it up in the morning?"

"Sure. I'll go make the bed. You going to tell Joan more about her mother tonight?"

"I should—I will. Should I tell Joan about the time you met her outside the hospital?"

"It was a Saturday, wasn't it?"

"And you'd just come to check up on me, because of this," I run a finger down the scar on my wrist. "There was always a reason I had you as my I.C.E. contact."

"Pretty much the same reason you married me, isn't it?" I let him have the kiss; it's not often he tries to steal them.

Joan doesn't seem that happy to see me, but that's probably because she's inherited my stubborn streak, so she can stay angry for quite a while. She's in bed, reading. I'm not quite sure what the radio's playing, but it's not a song I really recognize. It's recent, vaguely familiar, but beyond that I've got nothing. Joan turns to look at me the goes back to her book.

"I wanted to tell you more about Elsa." My voice is low, and Joan snaps her book shut to look at me. "Look, just because we're mad at each other right now doesn't mean I won't tell you Elsa's story."

"I'm still mad at you." She sets the book down on the floor rather more quietly, whispering. "But thank you."

"You'll probably still be mad at me after I tell you the story—but it's okay, I'm here to tell you the story, not ask you to forgive me." I can see the frown she's giving me, but it's half-hearted, and a little tired. She really does need to rest after a hard night fencing. She's still awake for now though, and still interested our story.

"So, mom, what is the story?"

—∞—

It was the Saturday after I tried Elsa's fish. One meal I would much rather have forgotten. We made up for it by going to a fancy restaurant on Friday night. We didn't dress up much for that one, but Elsa did wear a nice dress, and I had a fancy blouse and my dress trousers—because sometimes suits are fun too. The meal wasn't overly memorable, but I do recall that Elsa was almost falling asleep on the porch as I fumbled with the keys. I'd had just a little too much to drink, but as I wasn't driving, I didn't think mattered.

And because of that Elsa used me as a blanket in the morning, because we'd both collapsed on my bed. I know this because I woke up with something soft and warm beneath me, smiling up at me. This was before we started sleeping naked—

—∞—

"Mom!"

"What?" I give Joan a look. "It's more natural, and healthier. You'll understand the other advantages when you're older."

"No, I get them pretty well now," and Joan makes a very crude gesture to illustrate her point. So much for keeping her innocent.

"We were both consenting adults. Anyway, nothing happened. Now…"

—∞—

—and I was pretty sure we hadn't done anything the previous night. I don't even remember a kiss. That came later. We had breakfast together, and got to talking about our careers.

"You're an engineer?" she seemed surprised. "What field did you specialise in?"

"General engineering, Elsa. The nuts and bolts kind," I looked down at my toast. She assumed that because I was an engineer I'd gone to college and studied something special like civil or marine engineering. Not that I was at all ashamed of my place, I just felt like my achievements were somewhat underwhelming compared to hers.

"So… you just fix things?"

"Sometimes we make them too."

"We?"

"Me, Audrey, Kristoff, and Maurice."

"You work with Kristoff—I thought he was just your friend?"

"He's my boss," I smiled at her across the table, watching as she sipped her coffee. "But he's my friend too."

"He's a good man, Anniken. When you were hurt he made sure you were okay, then he came to tell me what happened."

"He told me, because the first thing I wanted to do when I woke up was tell you I was okay."

"And are you?"

I smiled and looked away shyly, blushing. "I'm better when you're around."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a pained look flash across Elsa's face, but she didn't say anything. She was quiet, just sipping her coffee and looking at me. I figured she was stalling for time. Until she completely changed the subject.

"Hey, think there's anything good on TV right now?"

I was rather shocked by the sudden shift. I'd just admitted that I liked being around her—because she made me feel good—and then she asked about _TV?_ Then I remembered that flash of pain that maybe I hadn't been supposed to see. Her admission that someone—Yuriko—had led her on in the past. Did she think I was doing that? Couldn't she see I was doing all of this because I wanted to help? Because I felt _responsible?_ And more and more, because I liked her. More than liked, in fact. For her to think that—it hurt, and I had a hard time keeping it from my face. It helped that I'd just turned away to put my dishes in the sink. Stopping dead in the middle of floor didn't.

A hand touched my shoulder and I flinched, turning sharply. I could see the surprise in Elsa's eyes, and the slow understanding. For a long time sudden movements, being too close, or being touched from behind would set me off. Hans had hurt me, and my mind still expected any sudden movement to be like him—to hurt. My reactions were automatic. But this time Elsa persevered, wrapping her arm about my shoulders and pulling me close.

Only then did I see what she thought must have stopped me. Only then did my hands shake. I kept seeing it and seeing it—trying my best to ignore it every day. The red tide marks on the wood. From me. They were blood. They were a reminder of just how close I'd come to death—and all the other memories of that night. I stepped over to the sink and put my dishes down, but Elsa didn't let go. She turned me to face her, and then she leant her forehead against mine.

"He'll never hurt you again, Anniken," she whispered to me. "I swear it. I'll keep you safe."

"You don't understand," I whispered back, eyes closed. "That _was_ my fault."

My eyes were closed, so I never saw it coming. I've said before that Elsa wasn't the violent type—and she wasn't. This was one of only two or three times she actually hit me and _wanted_ to hurt me. I couldn't keep the hurt and betrayal from my eyes, or the stinging from my cheek. I could see tears in her eyes, and I wondered why, because I was the one she'd hit. Before I could react, or say anything, she had pulled me into an almost bone-crushing hug—just like some of mine.

"You must never— _never_ —blame yourself for what he did to you." Then she squared my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. Many times, in fact. She fussed over my hair, then kissed my cheek again. "I'm sorry I hit you, Anniken. It was wrong of me."

"It was," I agreed solemnly. "And it's worse"—I held out my left wrist for her to see—"because _I_ did this"—I pointed to the stain on the floor—"and this lead to that. So it is my fault. So you just slapped me for nothing."

Elsa said nothing, eyes bright with regret, and just turned her cheek to me, inviting me to hit her.

"No."

She turned to look at me, intrigued.

"Hitting you wouldn't solve anything, and it wouldn't make me feel better either—oh, well, it might, but only right now, I'd just feel terrible and guilty and like a horrible person later so I won't. But I will forgive you. I mean, as long as you promise not to hit me like that again because you've got quite an arm there—ever play baseball?"

Elsa pulled me into a tight hug. I flinched, because she really was quite fast, but I relaxed when she rested her chin on my shoulder.

"I promise I will never hit you again, Anna."

I had some meaningful reply lined up, but I forgot it the instant I heard the doorbell. It was Saturday. Morning. I most certainly was not expecting any visitors. Neither, I guessed, was Elsa, given how alert she suddenly became. Frowning in consternation, I opened the door, Elsa at my back, one hand on my shoulder, trying to look past me.

"Umm, hi?" It was Kristoff, and I'm pretty sure he hadn't meant to turn that into a question.

"Kristoff?"

"Let me try that again," he backed a half step from the door and smiled at me. "Hi Anna, can I come in."

"Uhh, sure," I was still unsure as to why he was there, but I wasn't going to make him stand on the porch the whole time.

"Nice couch." He sat heavily on the end closest to the door, then patted the cushion next to him. His next words were very serious. "Anna, can I talk to you?"

I was a little taken aback—couldn't we just talk at work, on Monday? I stayed standing, Elsa at my side, and Kristoff frowned slightly at me. It looked like maybe he wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure he could—or should—say it in front of Elsa.

"I just want to make sure you're okay, given the last few weeks."

I sat heavily on the cushion next to him, then laid my wrist against his leg so he could see the scar. "It's about this, isn't it."

"That—and why you did it. I… I don't really know how to ask, Anna."

"Then don't," I shook my head. "I don't want to go through that again."

"I… I just want to know you're okay, that's all," he took a deep breath, then placed his hand in mine. "As a friend. Not your boss. You really, really scared me Anna."

"You are not the only one she scared with that," Elsa sat next to me, one hand resting just above my knee, squeezing my leg. She meant it as a show of solidarity.

There, the three of us on the couch, that was my world. I didn't know it back then, but now it's so obvious that that's the moment it all started. It was a small moment, intimate, among friends. Among people that cared for me. Perhaps even actually loved me. They didn't press me for the story about the scar on my wrist. They didn't expect me to say anything. They just wanted me to know that I was cared for. Loved. By both of them. I'd never felt anything like it before—except maybe in my youngest years with my parents, busy though they sometimes were. I took a shuddering breath and wiped my eyes. My hands came away damp with tears.

Had I just been crying?

I felt an arm around each shoulder, and I winced, trying to shrink away. They wouldn't let me. I felt both of them slide just a little closer.

"It's okay, Anna, you're safe now." Elsa.

"You'll be okay." Kristoff.

I turned and smiled for each of them; to let them know I appreciated their words. So, so much. I wasn't crying because I was sad. I was crying because I was happy, and loved, and I hadn't felt like I mattered like that for a very long time. It felt like in that moment I had regained some vital part of myself, something hidden or stolen from me. I wasn't yet better, but I was okay. I was safe. It was enough.

Wiping away the tears, I turned to Elsa first. "Thank you for showing me I was worth more." Then I took Kristoff's hand in mine and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you for being there; and for not giving up on me."

I stood, turning to face them. There was something I had to get off my chest. They both thought the scar on my wrist was because I'd lost hope—they knew the one under my breast was because I'd challenged Hans—but I wanted them to know the truth. I wanted them to understand the enormity of what I'd almost done—let happen—because I was convinced it was the only way to get revenge. And as I spoke, I saw the horror on Kristoff's face. I saw anger too, and back then, that scared me. But I didn't stop talking. It was like a dam breaking, and either I was going to get it all off my chest, or drown in the flood.

Elsa had started angry, but very quickly her face had become blank. She was aghast. I understood why, too. For one terrible moment I had been like _Hans_. I wanted to _destroy_ him. To destroy him and leave him so utterly broken he would never recover. I wanted to destroy him like he'd tried to destroy me. I told them; I gave them my rationale, hard to swallow though it might have been. Kristoff stood, hands balled into fists, knuckles white. I took a half-step back, but he didn't move.

"Anna, why?" I looked straight at him. I'd just told him why. He stared straight back and I looked at the floor, pretending to find it interesting. Very interesting. I didn't want him to see the shame I felt. I saw a shadow move, and when I looked up he was standing next to me. I let out a quiet breath as he spoke, wishing I could just disappear. "I know you wanted to hurt him; to break free—"

He took a deep breath, and I looked away. I had a feeling something big was coming.

"—but you went too far, you—"

"She did not." I heard Elsa interrupt; she would defend me when I couldn't do it myself. When I felt like I didn't deserve it.

"Isabella, let me finish." I saw Kristoff hold up his hands to forestall any protest, then he took my hands in his, making me look him in the eye. "You went too far, Anna. No amount of vengeance; no amount of damage; nothing you ever do to him is worth trading your life for"—and here he flashed me mischievous grin—"besides, who else do I know that can do an inverted weld in a two thousand litre tank while dangling by her ankles?"

I couldn't help it. One hand went to my mouth to try and hide the giggles, and the other covered my stomach as I almost doubled over. Elsa stepped over to straighten me out, resting her forehead against mine when we stood again. I felt her flyaways brushing my cheeks. I felt her nose just touching mine. I smelled her, raw, primal, and beautiful, and for a moment it almost overwhelmed me. There was something intoxicating about being that close to another woman. Being that close to her. When she spoke her voice was barely above a whisper.

"You truly are an idiot, Anniken," I felt her hands reach out to cradle the back of my head. Her nose no longer touched mine. Her lips seemed dangerously close. "But you are _my_ idiot."

And in that moment I felt it. I knew it. Then, now, and forever. The taste of that spark; the dull heat of rekindled embers; the sheer, simple truth of that moment. I was in love. With another woman. Who loved me back. I knew. She knew. Softly, quietly, breaking the eternity of a ghostly second she broke contact and made it true. She didn't have to say it, because I knew it, but she said it anyway.

"I love you."

That was when Kristoff, rather embarrassed, cleared his throat and made us remember that we were not, in fact, the only two people in the world.

—∞—

Joan looks at me, quite surprised. "Dad was there when you kissed auntie Elsa?"

"Yup," I smile at her. "Though I think he probably remembers it rather differently."

There's a quiet moment. I don't say anything, I leave it up to her, if she wants to. She doesn't. I guess she must still be mad at me. I'm okay with that—sometimes to be a good parent I've got to be the bad guy. I don't like it, but I'm okay with it. And you, up there, I always will wonder what kind of mother you would've been. I remember how you took care of me when I was sick. I'm sure you'd make a great mother. Hmm… maybe you already did; she's your daughter too.


	21. Dancers

It's never good when you get a call from the hospital. Especially not at night—even more so when you're a parent. I know it's Joan. On fencing night even. Now my mind is running through a number of nightmare scenarios involving my baby, each less likely than the last. I slow down and take a deep breath before handing the phone off to Kristoff. It sounds terrible, but it really isn't. Day stay, at the worst. I think she's going to enjoy telling me her side of it. I'm almost pulling out of the driveway when I remember that Kristoff should be here too.

Oops.

I packed a change of clothes for Joan, just in case. Kristoff grabbed a book—though that looks more like it's for him than her. Maybe he's right to do so, it's possible we'll have to wait. It's just as well he's with me, gently reminding me to a) breathe, and b) follow the road code. I wish I could appreciate that more in this moment, but almost all my willpower is concentrated on Joan. She'll be okay—it's mostly that the hospital's emergency room was closest. I'm not panicking—I'm not. Okay, maybe a little bit. After all, my baby did just get hurt bad enough to end up in a hospital.

Surprisingly, there aren't any delays, and the nurse leads us straight to Joan's bed, where she's propped up and smiling, laughing at something on the TV—much better than when you were stuck here, I'm sure. She turns to me, and her smile fades. It's not gone, but I think maybe she's afraid. She shouldn't be—or is it that she's afraid for me? Hmph, I remember my own teenage years being rather confusing. Her expression changes to one of concern.

"I–I'm sorry, mom. I didn't want to scare you."

"What about your poor old dad, Snowflake?" Kristoff's smiling down at her. His voice might be playful, but I can see the worry in his eyes.

"You're tough, dad," and she winks at him, holding up her arm for him to see.

It's a lattice-web style cast; tough but breathable, and you can actually scratch if it gets itchy. Printed on site to match her arm exactly. She winces slightly as she puts the arm down. There's an X-ray next to her bed showing the extent of the break. It doesn't explain the miniature butterfly bandages down her right temple though. That cut looks like it goes into her hair. Well, I know that's gonna suck later. Then again, she's probably got a good story to tell now. A story I'd really like to hear. Me and Kristoff each pull up a chair; I'm on her right, and he's on her left.

"So," I wink at her. "What did you vanquish this time?"

She looks down at her wrist, and I can see the disappointment in her eyes. "My chances of going to the melee."

I'm not about to tell her that she wouldn't have gotten that chance—bad guy I might have been; I wanted that punishment to sting—if she thought she had a chance, I'm not going to take it away from her now. I want to make sure she's okay, and that she knows we all love her and care for her. I give her a gentle look and just sigh, patting her shoulder. I'm not sure I should say anything right now.

"I'm okay," but it's a wan smile that greets me when she speaks. "I just… well, I really wasn't expecting this to happen."

"How did it happen?" Kristoff leans a little closer as he asks that. "Do I need to knock some heads?"

"Dad, no!" She looks around, cheeks aflame, trying to make sure we weren't overheard. "It was an accident, okay?"

"Okay." I see the twitch as he's about to tousle her hair, then thinks better of it with her lying in a hospital bed. "Just tell us what happened, in your own time."

"I tripped." We both just stare at her. _Seriously baby, you just_ tripped? I don't buy it. I fix her with a hard stare. "Some _gioco stretto_ may have been involved." Kristoff's turn to stare. He tries, he really does with the terms, but sometimes it just evades him. She rolls her eyes but relents. "Close play—grappling."

"So someone else tripped you," Kristoff is looking quite stern.

"Well yeah, dad, that's kinda the point. We're meant to learn how to defend against it."

"Looks like it didn't go too well."

She gives him a chagrined smile. "Lanie did try to catch to me, but her hand slipped on my gambeson sleeve, and we both went down, and the next thing I know Phil's staring down at me, dabbing the side of my head, and my wrist is on fire. They think I might have a concussion."

"You're going to have learn to write right handed for a while," I smile at her.

"Yeah, I guess I can thank auntie Elsa for that one," she gives me a mocking grin. It's good to see that despite this hiccup she's still got a strong sense of fun. This is twice she's been hurt at fencing in recent months. I don't _think_ it's establishing a trend, but you never can tell.

"So, that explains your wrist and the concussion, but what about this?" I run a finger tenderly past the cut on the side of head. She tries very hard not to wince or shy away. It must hurt. I kiss her hair, just above the cut. I can see her smile—relaxed; content. She's hurt, but she's cared for. Loved. I can read it all in that smile.

"Well, when I fell, I kinda landed on Lanie's sword."

I can't help the shocked gasp that escapes my lips. If she'd landed just a little differently—I shake my head, trying to quell the thought. She and Kristoff both notice.

"It's okay mom, I hit it side on—they tell me it'll make a really pretty bruise by tomorrow."

I facepalm. That explains why it hurt more than I suspected. I wonder if it'll play into her badass persona. Some kind of epic fight, with the multiple choice history again.

"Hey, mom?"

"Yes?"

"I know they said I'm not really supposed to sleep, because of the concussion and everything, but could you tell me a bedtime story?"

"Which one?"

"The one about auntie Elsa, of course," and she smiles at me. "We just got to the part where you grossed out dad with your first kiss."

"I was not grossed out."

"No?"

"I was quite surprised, and maybe a little—" he leans over Joan to whisper in my ear. "—turned on."

I laugh, giving him a knowing smirk. "You wanna do something else while I tell the story?"

"No," he smiles at the both of us. "I think I'll stay here, in case you need me."

Joan reaches over to squeeze his hand. She doesn't say anything, but we can all hear it. We all know it. Kristoff smiles, settling down into his chair and opening his book— _so_ that's _why he brought it_. Smart ass.

—∞—

It was a Thursday, and rain was pelting down outside. Unfortunately, once again, I was in it. Sometimes even the wet weather gear on my bike wasn't enough to keep me completely dry. Elsa was fixing dinner—she'd promised me no fish would be present this time—and I'd managed to get home early enough to have a shower and not miss dinner. Or so I thought. Having stripped half off on my way up the stairs I opened the door to the bathroom, wondering for a split second why it was so warm in there already. Then our eyes met, and we laughed.

She was only wearing a towel, and I was pretty much topless—because trying to take jeans off on the stairs was never a good idea; something I learned the hard way. She gestured to the room, blushing slightly.

"It's all yours, Anniken," she smiled warmly, throwing another towel around her hair. "I didn't think you would be home so soon."

"I wanted to get in a good shower before dinner," my cheeks were almost on fire, and I knew it. Elsa said nothing about that.

"You shouldn't be so shy," she winked at me, one finger teasing the scar beneath my breasts as she walked out. "You are still so beautiful."

I didn't have a good reply for that. All I could do was look away and turn a deeper shade of crimson. I felt a soft peck on my cheek before she left, closing the door quietly behind her. I was quite taken aback by that. I really was falling for another woman. I loved her, as a person—I knew that much from the start. But this? The affection she showed me? That was something I'd never been prepared for. To be so loved, so freely, and without thought of reward. Maybe… maybe that was the point I really started getting over what Hans had done to me. That was the I point really realized I was worth something, just as myself.

I mean sure, the previous Saturday had shown me something of that. Both Kristoff and Elsa had shown me I was worthy. Now it was finally starting to sink in. I had worth, not just as a friend, or a hard worker, or a sort-of landlord. I had worth as myself, as a person—and Hans had tried to destroy that. I balled my hands into fists and punched the wall. I knew I'd regret it before I did it, but that sudden burst of anger needed instant release.

Rubbing sore knuckles, I stepped into the shower. I don't really know what it was that made that one stick out in my mind. It was more than just a shower—it felt like a cleansing of my soul. It felt like I could start fresh, no longer tainted by Hans. I felt renewed. Or maybe it was Elsa's bodywash. I hoped she wouldn't mind, because it smelled so good on her I figured I just had to try it. I may also have taken a little longer than usual, trying to figure just where my mind—and body—fell on the concept of Elsa as more than just a friend. She had said she loved me, and the way she'd acted, it couldn't just be platonic.

It was a big step though—even though she'd sort of cheated by seeing me half-naked first. That was on me though. For the rest of it I was just going to go where my heart led me. Even then, if I'd known how it would end, I still would have. She was worth it; all the tears, all the pain, those feelings of ruin and bereavement. I can look back now with joy and solace, knowing how much we helped each other heal.

—∞—

"Uhh, mom, did you actually get to dinner that night?"

I shake my head. "I got a little off track, didn't I?" Joan gives me an understanding smile—so, so much like yours. "Dinner wasn't the important part of that day anyway. Also, you asked about me liking girls a while back—I just wanted to point out it didn't happen all at once. It was… complicated."

"I'm only fifteen, mom—should I really have to worry about that kind of love?"

I take her hand, giving it a small squeeze. "You should know about it. Whether or not you want to worry about it is up to you."

"Really helpful."

Kristoff's eyes the both of us over the pages of his book, but decides not to intervene. I'm not sure he'd be entirely comfortable talking about that with her anyway.

"So, if it wasn't dinner, what was important about that night?"

—∞—

We were lying on the couch. Elsa's head was in my lap. I'll bet we looked like a couple of lovestruck teenagers. I don't care. Her eyes were closed as she listened to the rain. To her it was relaxing; pleasant even. To me it was, well, just a little scary. Loud. Then she told me about how she'd listen to the rain when she was growing up in Norway. Norway? She laughed at my surprise, wondering how I hadn't placed her accent yet. I remembered those odd curses she'd said.

"I always did like the rain," she smiled as I ran my fingers through her hair. "My parents told me I was born in a storm."

"At the stroke of midnight?" I couldn't help but tease her, the setup was too good.

"And turn out to be the chosen one?" Damn, she was on to me. "No, it was more like five-seventeen or something."

We laughed. "So, if you grew up in Norway, when did you move here?"

"I was eight," I could hear the wistfulness in her voice already. "I'd just made my first real friend, I was doing well in school, and suddenly we were moving halfway across the world because my father's company had just opened a new office here. I still miss him sometimes."

"It's okay to miss people," I slipped down so I could hug her better. "I still miss my parents."

"Is it alright to ask what happened?"

I kissed her on the head. "It was a plane crash—but I don't really want it to make me sad right now."

"I won't ask then," she rolled over so we were face to face, the rain fading into the muted distance. My breathing slowed as she drew closer, lips slightly parted. I leaned into the kiss, wishing my thoughts were about her, not my parents. A tear rolled down my cheek. She kissed that too. She spoke softly, leaning her forehead against mine. "I'm sorry I made you sad."

"It's alright," I smiled for her. "I was very close to my parents."

The lights suddenly dimmed, then flared to full intensity. Thunder boomed and rumbled and I jumped so forcefully I nearly spilled Elsa from the couch. Laughing, she sat up straight, reaching for the remote. She only turned on the radio, and it was the classics channel. The song was a little older, Stop and Stare, I think. It was a good song for the night, with a nice, slow beat. Elsa stood, legs still a little shaky—her physio was coming along well, but it would still be a while longer before she had real strength in her legs. She beckoned for me to stand as well, taking my hands as I stood. She asked if I remembered when Oaken had first 'danced' with her. I smiled and nodded, my cheeks colouring slightly, because I also remembered being thrown out by Oaken. I stood there for a blank moment, trying to figure out just what she was aiming for.

As the song was winding down I finally got it, and why the radio was on the classics. Elsa wanted to dance. She wanted to dance—with _me_. I smiled and wrapped her in a tight hug, standing on tiptoes so I could rest my chin on her shoulder. She wanted to share this dance with me. Me. I gulped. With me, the slightly uncoordinated engineer girl that had never managed to finish a set without standing on her partner's toes. I hung my head in shame and embarrassment. How could I ever measure up to the rising star of a dance troupe?

She showed me how, gently standing on _my_ feet. I could feel her arches against my shins. It felt awkward, until she took my hands and her body started to sway in time with the music. It was hard moving two people, but I managed. I thanked my job for giving me that extra, wiry kind of strength. I recognized the beat of the song, but not the words—not until the chorus. That was when Elsa very carefully stepped off my feet, and threw me into a slow twirl. I slipped, both of us landing hard, her on top of me.

She said nothing, offering me her hand so I could rise again, back into the dance. We moved slowly around the living room, Elsa guiding me, me looking down to make sure I didn't stand on her feet. A finger beneath my chin forced me to look up, to see her smile, to see her eyes, and how full of joy she was in that moment. Everything came together when the final chorus played.

"Give me the beat boys and free my soul," Elsa's smile was a glorious thing, so suddenly free. I leaned closer, drawing us together.

"I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away," I could feel it, my body was drifting apart, my mind suddenly higher, freer. I would drift away with her beside me.

"Give me the beat boys and free my soul," Elsa's smile turned sad, and I could see the tears gathering in her eyes. It hurt when she tried to push me away.

"I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away," She tried to turn away from me, but I wouldn't let her. I didn't know what was wrong, but I so badly wanted to make it right.

"Won't you take me away…" The song finished, the last few bars with Elsa crying softly on my shoulder. I cradled her head as we stood there, not understanding what had just happened. She had been so _happy_. I heard her whisper over the dying rain.

"I wish it could be like this all the time."

I still didn't understand. Not until later. She wasn't wishing for more love, but more _time_. I think she already knew how I much I loved her, and she was trying to spare me what would happen. She was an idiot.

—∞—

"So you and mom—" Joan yawns, her eyes fluttering with sleep. "—you danced to that old song." She smiles, whispering as she drifts off to sleep. "It's a good song."


	22. Openness

As I may have mentioned earlier, there are advantages to sleeping with the boss. One of them, surprisingly, is _not_ sleeping with the boss. Yeah, I stayed overnight in the hospital with Joan. She said it was okay to leave. I think she didn't actually want me there. Or maybe she didn't want it to bother me. I'm not sure, but I guess it's part of her growing up. I may also have just fallen asleep, because it _was_ a long day. I wasn't going to stay—not at first—but sitting next to a hospital bed, with a woman I love in it… memories. A lot of memories.

Like the time you tried that new drug and reacted so badly. I held your hair back while a nurse held that bucket. Luckily it didn't take you long to purge that one. I could still only kiss you on the cheek though, and you knew I was ashamed of that. Then you told me that being willing to kiss you at all after that display was some kind of miracle. It was our love—that was the miracle. I can't remember exactly where I kissed you next, but I do remember it made the nurse blush. He was funny—I wonder if he still works here.

Now Cara's here—Tina's mom—with her daughter in tow. I didn't think today was an off day at school. It's not. I guess someone's playing hooky. I wave hello to Cara, but don't even get a look in from Tina. She's already sitting beside Joan, inspecting her cast. I can see Joan trying hard not to smile. Tina whispers something to her and she puts a hand to her mouth, failing to suppress the giggles. It's good to have friends that make you laugh.

The conversation suddenly turns to handedness, and now I think Tina's teasing Joan. "You know, now you have to use your other hand…" Tina whispered the rest of that in Joan's ear, causing her to blush a bright pink. Definitely teasing. I laughed. Doesn't really take a genius to figure out what they're probably teasing each other about.

Joan gives her supposed friend a pointed look. "You are an evil little pixie." Then she looks at me.

"What?" I give her a shrug for emphasis. She turns a brighter shade of pink as she turns away, muttering darkly. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Cara trying very hard not to laugh.

"Anna, why don't we get a coffee?" Cara gives me a look. "Give these two some privacy."

Joan facepalms and Tina is trying desperately not to look at anyone here. They really are a cute couple. I follow Cara down the hall while we hunt for a coffee machine. I decide to get a hot chocolate. It's better anyway. There is something of an awkward silence. I think it would be nice to know Cara better—she is the mother of Joan's girlfriend, after all—but I'm just not sure where to begin. She actually looks a little nervous too. Our daughters are thick as thieves back there, and we can't seem to string two words together.

"So, Anna… I've been meaning to ask what it is you actually do for a living. I know you work with your husband, and have the van."

"I'm an engineer," I turn so she can see my smile. "Nuts and bolts stuff, fixing things, conveyors, bottling machines, carpet beamers, hydraulics, putting up work platforms—the lot."

"Wow, that sounds pretty involved."

"I can just get stuck in and get my hands dirty, come away at the end of the day and actually _see_ progress. I like it." I raise a quizzical eyebrow. "So what is it you do?"

"I'm a P.A., for the local manager of Sultan Accounting."

"So that's like, organizing meetings, and getting people together, and coffee runs for the boss."

Cara laughs at that one—it's a bright, sharp kind of laugh. "Mostly true, Anna, mostly true. I like to think of it as running logistics, except with people—who are a lot harder to handle than most freight."

"You did a stint in warehousing?"

"I was young, needed the money to get through college."

"Didn't want to wait tables?"

"I have standards," and she winks at me. "I lived close to an industry park back then. Easier commute. Work was pretty rewarding—actually where I met Westley, too."

I look away. I never liked Westley, and I'm not sorry for what happened, but I feel kind of responsible. I don't know how to respond to that, so I just let it slide, hoping she'll continue with something safer.

"I do wish he'd been a better person. I don't like Tina not having a father who'll accept her."

I look up a little, my eyes flicking momentarily to hers. Light brown. Hazel. I'm distracting myself. I cough softly. "If things had gone differently, Joan might have had two mothers."

She just looks at me, frowning in puzzlement. "…but Joan…"

"Technology's come a long way," I wink at her. "But I would have needed a donor anyway."

Now it's Cara's turn to look away. I came to terms with it long ago, but I guess it's still kind of uncomfortable for other people to hear talk about it so openly—or obliquely, as the case may be. Technology—well, science, really—helped me a lot, letting me carry Joan when Elsa and Kristoff, err… donated… to me. I look over and Cara still seems a little distracted. I blow some stray hairs from my face and let out a quiet breath.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"A bit of a shock. But you said something about Joan having two mothers?"

"It's…" I don't know why I'm hesitating. I'm telling Joan. Kristoff knows. It's not some dark secret. Tina knows, too; secondhand. So why can't I tell her mother? I dodge the question. "It's a long story."

"You were in love with a woman—what's so long about that?"

"It was…" I sigh, wishing I knew Cara better so I could be more open. "Complicated." I give her a little, hoping she won't pry too deeply. "It nearly got me killed."

I jump a little as she lays a hand over mine. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it. It must be painful."

I think to myself, you have no idea. And she really doesn't. I change the subject, still berating myself for not being as honest with her as I am with Tina. "We should go check on the girls."

And when we get there Joan's itching her wrist through one of the voids in the lattice cast, and Tina's sitting beside her, nestled into her shoulder. They don't look too awake. I look over at Cara, and she's smiling softly at them. I guess she really does approve, and I'm glad. Not that I really doubted, after what happened with Westley, but I just wasn't a hundred percent sure. Then she kneels down in front of Tina and waves a hand in front of her face. Tina starts in surprise.

"Oh, hi mom," she looks at Joan, who is trying not to giggle. "I guess we kinda lost track of time."

"Sure it is, little miss lipstick stains." I have to turn away to hide my laughter when Tina starts touching her lips in panic. Cara's commentary does _not_ help. "What—you think your mother doesn't know?"

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Joan turning an interesting shade of pink, matching that of her girlfriend. Still laughing a little, I turn to her. "We always knew," she glares at me. "But I really wanted to ask if you felt up to going to school this afternoon. You could tell everyone about your epic battle for the hand of the pixie princess…" I leave it hanging for a second. "…and the rest of the princess as well, I guess, otherwise that'd just be weird."

"Mo-om." But I can see she's trying not to laugh. "I just wanna go home today. Plus, Tink can tell me if I miss anything—" and here she turns to Tina with an evil grin. "—can't you, Tink?"

Tina fixes her with an angry scowl. Cara laughs. "We agreed you'd get the morning Tina; I didn't say anything about playing hooky for the whole day, now, did I."

"Ugh, this sucks."

Joan leans over awkwardly to plant a kiss on her cheek. "You can't win 'em all."

"See you tomorrow morning?"

"Unless there's a dragon involved."

"Alright, it's time to get moving young lady. We'll get lunch on the way there."

Joan waves brightly as Cara leaves, a reluctant Tina in tow. Having heard lunch mentioned, I realised that I've only had some vending machine food and a hot chocolate since dinner last night. I think it might be time for something a little more substantial. Joan's probably hungry too; I turn to her and ask about lunch.

"Did you want me to get you anything?"

"Out of here," she smiles up at me with her best puppy-dog face. Your puppy-dog face. It still works.

"How about I find a doctor and see if they can release you?" She smiles, making a mocking shoo gesture with her free hand. She's fine, and if all she really wants right now is to go home, who am I to argue?


	23. Soirée

It's a week later… no, Friday makes it a week and a half. Joan's wrist is healing well, though she still bemoans having to write with her right hand. I know I said I wasn't going to let her attend the grand melee, but I've softened my stance a bit. It is a big event after all. I have decided that she can at least spectate. That's fair, right? Yeah, I haven't gone back on my word—she isn't fighting in it; and I don't seem like so much of a bad guy anymore. She did earn it, taking on a heap of responsibility for household chores even with her injury. I smile, looking at myself in the mirror.

I'm letting my hair down tonight—just gathering it very loosely in twin tails to shape it for now. I know you always liked that wavy style. I'm wearing that corset too, it helps me fill the dress. Long and slinky, sleeveless, backless, and with that iridescent sheen over the velvet. It might be a little longer than you remember—I finally took your advice and took it to that crazy seamstress. So now the skirt goes to my ankles, with a riding slit all the way to my thigh. Daring, but not overly provocative.

I pause when I put on the earrings. Why are my hands shaking? I'm not nervous. I'm not… oh. Not shaking, blurry. I blink away sudden tears, because I remember the party I wore these to sixteen years ago. The dress too. Your last birthday. Ever. You made it as far as thirty. Thirty… that's no age. But you and me, we _lived_ those last two years for you. There's a hand against my shoulder. A hand connected to an arm; the arm of a rakish looking man in a dinner suit. With the overly large nose and the unruly blonde hair. He leans down to kiss my hair.

"I remember that birthday too." Then he kneels beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

I cry for a little while, every now and then dabbing at my makeup so I don't have to start over. I remember so much emotion at that party—not a lot of the party itself, because _you_ got me drunk. I swear you did that on purpose, to, uh… um… I think I actually _wanted_ you to take advantage of me at that point. You'd been so down, and you were looking forward to the party, and everything actually went right, and then I passed out drunk. I think.

I still wonder what you did that night—the mystery kinda bugs me now. All I remember is the hangover after, and your smile. You were smiling. That was enough for me, to see your smile. And then realise you'd cooked me breakfast—and found something to alleviate the symptoms of borrowing happiness from tomorrow. God, whoever came up with that one about being drunk was right on the money. Anyway, I loved that you'd made me breakfast, taking care of me as I was taking care of you.

I smile in the mirror, one corner of my mouth turning up. Sometimes it hurts to remember, but there are always the good times. We should be going now, me and Kristoff. I take another minute to fix my makeup and grab a small purse. Kristoff laughs as I shove it down the front of the corset, between my breasts. I just give him a look and he shrugs, patting his jacket pocket with the wallet in it. We all need ID for this gig.

Audrey's sister won the regional championship, and that, apparently, means she has to throw a party. Audrey invited everyone she could think of, which, as it turns out, is a lot of people. We get there, and there are bouncers at the door. Not very subtle ones either. Then again, seeing some of the people in the line—whom I'm assuming Audrey's sister may or may not have fought at some point—it makes sense. We get checked at the door, and then Audrey herself is there to greet us.

I was hoping she'd wear a dress, but no, it's a suit. I squint, because I'm not sure she's wearing anything beneath the jacket. She gives me a knowing smile, patting the rich brocade pattern sewn into the black satin of the jacket. It's fancier than anything else I've seen her wearing, and the cut is very flattering. Kristoff seems a little taken aback too, and I whisper something in his ear about workplace relationships. He has the good grace to blush, one hand gently squeezing mine. And maybe I was looking a little closer than I should have, too—but it is a very nice jacket.

There's a definite spring in her step as she walks off, beckoning us to follow. She must be just as happy as her sister about this win and—whoa, is _that_ her sister? I know the double-take must look stupid, but her sister is gorgeous. I mean, we have met a handful of times, but this… this is not what I expected of an MMA fighter at a celebration, but, the tattoos going up her shoulders are unmistakeable, as is that grip she has. I surreptitiously massage my hand as the introductions go around.

"Anna, Cass."

"Uh, hi," and I wave in order to save my hand from being crushed again.

"Nice to see you again, Anna." She smiles and picks me up in a bear hug. I still like her smile, it's kind of like a cockier version of yours—not that I think she's arrogant or anything, but she's really self-assured and knows her place and I'm rambling, okay, okay, just breathe. Cass frowns in concern at my slight hyperventilation, putting me down. "You okay, little firebird?"

"I'm okay," I smile back at the nickname. "Just forgot how strong you were." Gently massaging my ribs. Maybe the corset was not the best choice for tonight, but I like the look Audrey's giving me trying to figure out how I'm keeping everything up. Fair play for her wearing that jacket, I say.

"Cassie," Kristoff smiles and nods, reaching out for a handshake.

"Kris," and I can see the little power struggle there. I sidle up closer to Audrey.

"You both look great tonight—didn't expect Cass to be in a dress though."

"I insisted, firebird," she claps me on the shoulder. "Even tried to get my little sis' here to wear one."

"An epic struggle, no doubt," Kristoff puts a hand around my waist.

"Hell's gonna freeze over before y'see me wearing a dress."

"You won't be seen dead in one?" I tease her. She shakes her head. "How are you gonna stop us dressing you up?" I give her my most devious smile. She doesn't have a good reply for that, so she just scowls at me. We make small talk for a little while before Cass and Audrey go and introduce themselves to another group of arrivals. Very athletic, some sporting visible tattoos. Must be other MMA fighters. I wonder if tattoos are mandatory now, or just sort of an initiation rite into the club, so to speak.

There is wine—I only have a glass or two. There is a fancy meal. And then there is a dance floor. A few songs in and Cass, perhaps a little tipsy, wanders over. She offers me her hand. I blink, not sure if I should—she knows I'm going to be stepping on her toes the whole time, right? Kristoff gives me a gentle nudge. I stand, admiring for a moment the simple lines of Cass's yellow dress. Almost sleeveless, to show off her tattoos, and a high necked collar; it's surprisingly classy. Silk, too.

As Cass leads me to the floor I can see the stylized wings on the back of the dress—well, actually, it's a cheon-something-or-other; Chinese. It's refined and elegant, and rather at odds with my mental image of Cass as an MMA fighter. She's holding me pretty close, but I think that's to make sure I don't step on her toes too much, because she keeps looking down. I recognise a few songs as we shuffle about the floor, modern stuff, but the tempo's right for a slow dance style. Idly, looking down to make sure I'm not standing on her feet, I ask Cass what she does besides fighting. Turns out she's an event co-ordinator in her downtime, and that's how she managed to get this place for the night; another party having cancelled a little while back.

The song changes again, a little more upbeat, and as we move Cass's hand slips from my waist, but I'm pretty sure it was an accident, given I nearly tripped her up just now. She steadies me, laughing, stamping her feet in time with the music. It's gotten quite up-tempo, and the beat is infectious. There's some aggressive violin in there too and—yes, it is. Someone's put some Lindsey Stirling into the mix. I stamp my feet and twirl, colliding softly with Cass. She's smiling and blushing as we separate.

We keep the dance up to the end of the song, her feet way faster than mine, and it ends with me tipped over backwards. I wave to Kristoff as Cass sets me upright again. She leads me back, her hand just slipping from my waist and down as I'm about to take my seat. I raise an eyebrow at her—she misses the expression, because she's already looking at the floor, hands now clasped behind her back. Her cheeks have a rosy tint, and I'm less than convinced it's from the alcohol.

Cass turns away, waving back with a wistful smile. I frown at her, a slight haze over my thoughts. I'm not quite sure what to say. She smiles at me, winking. Then she's gone, making a beeline for Audrey and why is Audrey looking at her like that? I shake my head. I am _so_ confused right now… unless… hmm. Maybe that hand slipping past my waist wasn't quite so accidental. Though being a little tipsy myself I'm not too sure whether to be offended at this because I'm married; or flattered, because someone like Cass would actually go to the effort of making a pass at me. I didn't even know she went for girls. Which I may have just said out loud. For some reason Kristoff is choking on his drink. I think he's trying not laugh at my obliviousness here.

"Let me make it up to you," he smiles, standing to offer me his hand. "You can watch me fail horribly at dancing."

"We can do that together," I laugh, following him to the floor.

Once or twice, Cass bumps into me, an apologetic blush colouring her cheeks. I wonder how long she's had a crush on me—because the last time we met was years ago. At Audrey's birthday. 35th? 36th? Does the number really matter? But Cass said Audrey was her little sister—but she looks so much younger than Audrey and oh; she was teasing her. So Cass is younger, by a fair bit. Why does she have a crush on me? I frown, leaning into Kristoff's shoulder as we dance a slow dance. I wonder if Cass's crush has anything to with her nickname for me. The wine, the music, and trying not to stand on Kristoff's toes take my mind off such heavy thoughts. I should just enjoy this moment—and hope I'm not borrowing any happiness from tomorrow.

* * *

Turns out I didn't borrow happiness, which is nice, but we had, some, ah, problems trying to celebrate during our own little afterparty back home. We'd had a little more than we thought, got a taxi to take us home, and after making sure Joan was in bed, proceeded to remove each other's clothing as swiftly as possible. Due to the aforementioned alcohol, all we did was cuddle and fall asleep. Not that I'm really complaining—it was nice just to lie there, laughing at ourselves, feeling all warm inside, and not being sure if that was each other or the wine.

Some time—quite some time—after waking up we head down for a late breakfast—what? Showering together saves water, you prude. The handrails helped. Joan is rummaging around in the kitchen for snacks when we enter. That guilty look, along with the biscuit gripped between her teeth is glorious. How did she not hear us on the stairs? She takes the biscuit out and waves, trying hard not to drop anything. So of course half of what she's carrying falls all over the floor as she curses at having a busted wrist.

"Stocking up for winter, Snowflake?"

"Umm…" she's looking straight at me, not her father. Perhaps there's something I should know. I say nothing, just standing there looking stern. "Tina asked if she could come over, and you two were still asleep, so I kinda said yes, and we were gonna have lunch and I'm getting stuff ready before she gets—"

"Would you like some help?" I crouch next to her, gathering up some of the stuff she's dropped. She smiles, placing what she was carrying on the bench.

"Thanks mom."

"And for the record, Tina is welcome to come over on the weekends, as long as you two behave—and as long as it's okay with _her_ mother."

"Umm…"

"Joan," I give her a serious look. Kristoff backs me up with a disappointed sigh, bending down to pick up the last couple of things from the floor.

"Well, technically… she said if you said it was okay for Tina to come over then it would be fine, but 'cause I kinda replied for you… yeah," she shrugs, a chagrined smile on her lips.

"I guess this afternoon's story time will just have to wait then."

"But not too long, right, mom?"

"Once Tina's gone. The next part might be a bit rough on me." I grab a bowl of coco-pops and sit at the table. It's the part where you told me, well, what was really going on—the first part I have on video. The part I used to watch on your birthday. It's gonna sting, telling Joan that. I have to consider that—even though she knows—it may well hurt her too. I _have_ to be prepared for that. So does Kristoff. We'll talk after breakfast. Until then, I'll just sit, enjoying my sugar rush.

Tina gets dropped off by her mother not long after I finish breakfast. In the kitchen I tell Kristoff where I am with the story—our story. His hand on my shoulder gives me strength, and he whispers something in my ear about chocolate being ready too. I wish you could've seen more of this side of him sometimes. Then again, maybe you did. It _was_ your idea, after all.

Out in the lounge room Tina and Joan have sprawled out over the couch, not really watching whatever it is that's on TV right now. I make my way up to the bedroom and grab my laptop—all the videos we made are on it, and backed up elsewhere too. I've also got a few social media feeds to check after that party last night—and suddenly I wonder if there are pictures of me and Cass dancing circulating around somewhere. On Audrey's phone, I would think, so she can tease Cass endlessly about it later. That said, I've heard Cass tease her about her own lack of a significant other. As far as I know Audrey's never been into, well, anyone.

That's probably a topic for another time though.

One of the pictures makes me do a double take, scrolling back to see it again, expanding it to full screen. Unmistakeable. A shiver rushes down my spine. I was in the same room as that bastard. But everyone there knew about my past—and I know neither Audrey nor Cass would have let him in. Which means he was somebody's guest or plus one; and that he also somehow managed to slip the bouncers to get inside. My phone is out and my finger is hovering over lieutenant Erikson's number before I realise what's happening.

I take a breath, calming myself. Or at least attempting to do so. I will solve this. My way. I let out a breath, closing the laptop. Kristoff needs to know. That's step one. Joan… she should know, just in case he might try to do something to her. Then I need to let Cass and Audrey know what happened—they should know who he came with, and maybe even who took the picture. Make a plan first, then act. Consult others about the plan. Gain information about the target. Use that information to decide your next step. I'm just upset that step isn't a—I know violence isn't the answer, but in this one case it would just be oh so satisfying.

I head downstairs, calling a meeting. I have to ask Tina to stay out of it, and I feel pretty bad for her—she came here to spend a nice day with Joan, and here I am raining on everyone's parade. No—this is not my fault. It's Hans's fault. He's the one that did those awful things; he's the reason I have to do this now. And one phone call later to a very surprised Cass reveals that the man at the party was not, in fact Hans—it was his brother Nicholas.

"Hi Anna," Audrey calls out from the background. I hear something that sounds suspiciously like 'threesome'.

"So he runs one of the promo companies?"

"Big media campaigns and—still better than only having a relationship with your nightstand." There is a very awkward pause. "Sorry. Sisters."

I know something that'll get both of them on the back foot. "Tell Audrey that if she's any naughtier she'll have to go to _my_ room."

"What?!" Perfect. I end the call. It's immature, I know—especially with the look I'm getting from my husband, and the one from my daughter. I tease people, and no, I'm not sorry about it. Well, maybe a little. Plus, I'm sure it's no worse than what Cass was going to get from Audrey anyway—and this way she has a little something to tease Audrey with.

The rest of the afternoon spaces out into a bit of yard work—despite a light drizzle—and a lot of trying to remember every detail about one of the worst days of my entire life. Tina's gone by about four-ish, and I'm just sitting quietly on the couch with Joan nestled into my side. She's playing absently with the end of her braid—not impatient, _per se_ , but still waiting and maybe a little anxious. I shouldn't put this off.

I won't.

One deep breath, and I can feel her shiver of apprehension as I exhale. "It was late September, and my day had actually started pretty well…"


	24. Devastation

—∞—

I remember the morning well. I kissed Elsa goodbye, and her lips lingered against mine as if she was reluctant to end the moment. I know I was. She had on a slight hint of perfume, and it always made me think of winter. I didn't bother with perfume—What I do for a living made it rather pointless. Also, she said I had the scent of summer just being nearby. I liked that; she liked the way I smelled. I kissed her again, but she gently pushed me away.

"Anniken, you will make me late."

"Sorry." I lied. She saw right through it, smiling back at me. "I'll see you this afternoon, Elsa."

She waved to me, then stepped out the door. I sat back down to finish my toast, reading something in the paper. My phone rung. Kristoff. Work was cancelled for the day. We had been supposed to rip out an old depal machine at Naveen's so we could move an entire line to his new plant, but it turns out he'd decided he wanted it scrapped instead. Kristoff was now working on a quote for that, and as Maurice and Audrey could handle things at the workshop, I could have the day off. He may also have hinted that I should be spending this extra free time with someone I liked.

I hung up, my cheeks warm, thinking about what he'd said. I was a little disappointed about the lack of activity, but I had a sudden flash of inspiration. I would make a quick trip, and buy something special for Elsa. It would be an awesome surprise to come home to. Well, at least a little something to remember. I also bought a cheap video camera because I wanted to record her reaction to the gift.

Even back then the mall was pretty large. I wasn't quite sure what to get Elsa as a gift. Something nice, yes, but I also had no idea of what an appropriate amount to spend on it would be. That said, I had a lot of money. While I'd been with Hans, most of my money was being saved. What for, I don't know, I just saved it. Turned out I was rich. Not in the fabulously wealthy sense, but for a while I could have had every luxury imaginable. I tossed that idea out quickly. I would much rather have been happy than rich anyway.

It caught my eye as I walked past one of the more upmarket jewellery shops. Hanging there on a pure white bust, my mind immediately wandered to what it would look like against Elsa's pale skin. That was when I knew I had to have it—for her. A pendant on a fine sliver chain. Six pale blue gems surrounded a central setting, and finely wrought silver filigree tapered out to narrow points on the design. A perfect snowflake, sterling silver and aquamarine studs. It was pricey, and I stepped out of the store for a minute to re-check my balance.

Okay, it wouldn't really dent it, but I had to wonder what Elsa would think. She would know—or at least be able to guess—how expensive it was. I let out a breath, returning to the store.

"I'll take it."

"It will look dazzling on you."

"It's for a friend." I do not know why I was blushing.

"A very lucky friend," the sales clerk finished packing the pendant and chain into a small jewellery box as she spoke. "Should she decide that this, for some reason, is not for her, then I must tell you that she is mad." I only just caught the wink.

"No returns?"

The clerk smiled as she handed me the receipt on top of the jewellery box. "We take all sorts of returns,. Some people can be truly finicky about their mode of adornment. Barring strange voodoo curses; we can process a return for just about any reason."

"Thank you," I left with a smile, not really paying attention to the fact the entire transaction had been conducted over a mass of rings. My subconscious had noticed. All through lunch—which I decided to have out on a whim—I thought about ring patterns and stones and what all of it meant. I thought about Elsa. I liked her. Loved her. She was more special than she knew. I wondered if that meant I loved her enough to… one day. One day, I promised myself. If things went well over—hell, how long did it have to be?

Eventually, just sitting at the table after finishing lunch, I came to my decision. I would place a ring over one of those slender fingers, and she would do the same for me. It would happen in due time. And if it didn't? I shrugged; I would be richer for having loved her. I never knew then how much something like that would mean to her—not the rings, the other thing. I made my way home by taxi. Not being able to use my license outside of work was annoying, but I could live with it. I didn't go out much in the first place, and on occasion Kristoff would collect me in the van as the team was driving to site.

Back home I pulled out the steps to the attic, the creaking sounding vaguely ominous in the darkness above. It was mostly empty up there, just a few old boxes of junk we'd never gotten around to throwing out, some old writing of mine, and cobwebs. Dusty cobwebs. I gave one end a quick clean and then hid Elsa's present in a box there. I planned to fetch it when she got home later—but I kept the video camera downstairs, because I wanted to record everything.

I set the camera up on a side table in the front hall. I'd just heard something pull up out front, and figured it had to be her. It was, but watching from the window that woman could not have been less like Elsa if she'd tried. I saw her stagger from the back seat of the taxi, putting a hand out to steady herself. I watched as she stayed hunched over, taking deep breaths, slowly standing upright, back straight. Her hands ran through frazzled hair—she patted down some flyaways and rearranged her braid so it hung over her shoulder. She winced when she took that first step towards the door—our door—and I wanted so bad to run outside and help her, but something told me that this was something I wasn't meant to be seeing. That was why she was doing it outside, away from me.

Still hiding her problems. Why? Why was she hiding from me? Was this the reason she kept pushing me away? A deep-seated anger flared inside of me, something that had been simmering so long I hadn't even noticed it. The question wasn't why she was hiding all this pain—it was why she was hiding it from _me_. We were friends, possibly more. I deserved the truth—I wanted to help her. I never once thought that she might not have wanted to be helped. I forgot all about the camera.

I almost forgot my argument too, when she walked in, the picture of casual grace, my gaze wandering to her breasts. The things she did to that shirt were probably illegal in seven states, and frowned upon in rather more. I shook my head; anger giving me courage to speak after welcoming her home.

"Elsa," she frowned at my tone. I can't say I really blamed her. "Why do you keep pushing me away?"

"Like this morning?" she brushed it off. "I said, you would make me late."

"No, I mean like our first date—and I know _I_ was the one that ruined it but you changed so suddenly and it kinda hurt and I don't know why."

"You asked me about something I didn't want to talk about, Anniken."

"I know." I looked her straight in the eye. "I asked why you jumped in front of me."

I saw the darkness gathering behind those orbs of crystal blue. She was still shutting me out. Still didn't want to tell me what was really going on.

"Why?" I pressed. "Why try and kill yourself?"

"Anna, I don't want to talk about this." She turned to leave, retreating down the hall. My hand caught her arm and she whirled, standing terrifyingly close. "Don't ask again!"

"Fine." I wasn't quite shouting, but it was emphatic enough. "Then how about our date at the cafe, you didn't want to string two words together."

"I had a bad day—is that so hard to understand?!"

"Not if you'd told me!"

"I—No. Thi—"

"What?!" I leaned as close as I dared, staring her down—standing on tiptoe to do so. "What aren't you telling me, miss Frostad?"

"I'm leav—"

"No!" Even I was surprised how loud my voice was. "Not until you tell me. What about dinner? What about in front of Kristoff? What about that dance?"

I stared her down, anger burning in my heart. My God did I want the truth—and just like always, she refused to tell me. I saw how her eyes hardened and her lips set in that grim line. She was locking everything up inside so I'd never know. I didn't care what her stupid secret was, I just wanted to _know_. To know if it was _me_. If _I_ was the reason everything was going wrong. Even the realisation that what I was doing was so horribly wrong and selfish didn't stop me uttering those fateful words. I knew exactly what she'd been doing—and why. I just wanted her to admit it. She was already trying to walk away. I didn't reach out to her—I shouted at her back.

"Elsa!" She turned to face me, eyes brimming with tears. "Why do you keep shutting me out!"

That look—Just, that look she gave me. All that hurt, and need, and guilt. I saw it all. I could almost see it as those walls crumbled, blasted aside by my anger; my quest for the truth. It was like she was empty inside, and my words were what finally hollowed her out. She stepped closer, her face so intense I couldn't read it anymore. I shied back, afraid she would actually hit me. It had already happened once. She moved closer still, her body falling limp. She all but keeled over on top of me, and it took a great effort to keep both of us up. I staggered back, knocking the camera off the side table. I wobbled the other way, back towards the side of the stairs, because thin though Elsa was, she was still no featherweight.

Struggling to hold us both up, my anger gave way to guilt and shame—but not quite quickly enough. I said something I knew I would regret forever.

"What are you so afraid of?" Laced so heavily with anger, it was hard to know how she caught any of the concern I'd meant to put in that. Maybe she _felt_ it more, seeing my own guilty tears. I felt like I'd just ruined everything we never had. I definitely didn't expect her to lean closer. I didn't even expect an answer. I wasn't even sure I'd heard it at first, a soft breeze against my ear, a whisper beyond sound. She hiccoughed, tears falling slowly down her cheeks, and her words changed everything.

"Dying." There was a sharp gasp that I didn't even realise was my own. "Anna… I–I never wanted to hurt you."

She slid down the wall, spent, empty, her voice a hoarse whisper. I sat heavily next to her, hot tears of shame and regret coursing down my cheeks. It all made so much sense. It all made sense, and I hated it. She wanted to protect me—from loving her. Why would she ever think she need to do something like that? I pulled her into a tight hug, resting my chin on her shoulder as we both wept for an uncertain future. The sudden honesty hurt most of all. Even if I'd known from the start, nothing would have changed—I was in that deep. The anger had gone; I no longer cared about why—but she answered anyway.

"I have cancer."

I never wanted to hear those words. Her saying it made it real. It was impossible to process, I just sat there looking blankly at the wall behind her. Pieces started falling into place. The hospital visits, her light weight, the suicide attempt that had started all this, trying to push me away by turns; it hurt so much that I understood why. I couldn't say a word. My voice was gone. I hated myself for forcing all this on her. Forcing her to reveal everything. But there were two more words that would shatter my soul, even though I knew they had to be coming. An unwanted truth powerful enough to destroy me. Someone else once tried that out of fear. I'd almost done that to someone out of spite. It felt so, so much worse as a result of love. I already knew why she was dying from the cancer.

Her honest words made it all too real, and for a long time after she was the only thing I could cling to.

"It's incurable."

* * *

Two hours later and all we'd managed to do was make our way to the couch—her couch. Elsa sat stiffly at one end, I lay with my head in her lap so she could see the shame and remorse writ large upon my face. She stroked my hair to calm me, and I clung to her as if letting go meant we would both drown. I wasn't ready to let go. I wasn't ready to face the truth. So I just lay there, eyes closed, as Elsa's fingers ran through my hair. I wished there was something more I could _do_ —anything. Anything at all. There was nothing. Neither of us felt like food. I don't even think we felt… anything. It was too shocking, and I simply couldn't process it. When I opened my eyes for a brief snatch of light, I saw how hard she was struggling to hold it together.

"Don't," I whispered.

She looked down at me, confused. I closed my eyes, still barely trusting my voice.

"You don't have to be strong for me, Isabella."

"I… I'm sor–sorry," she spoke quietly, voice breaking.

"No," I whispered back, shaking my head. "I…" I couldn't finish it. I couldn't apologise for being a horrible person. A powerful sob wracked my body as another realisation struck me. Something about her, and her career. A rising star that would just… vanish. Everyone would forget about her. It would be like she'd never been there at all. Which was what she'd wanted at the start. I hated that thought, hated the truth of it. She'd tried to kill herself because she was afraid of hurting other people. Had she thought nothing of the person driving—what would her death have done to another driver?

I rolled over, sobbing and mumbling into her lap about the unfairness of it all. Somehow, she understood every word, running a hand down my back, comforting me. _Me_. She was the one who was dying, and I was the one that needed more comforting. Some friend I was. She caught that too, whispering a tearful reassurance to me. She made a promise—we could be sad now, and later we could be happy, or angry, or… I don't remember. I just remember how much she kept stressing _we_. Not me, not I, not her; _we_. She was just as committed to me as I was to her.

Even after that fight she wanted to stay with me. I really was an idiot. Slowly, needing a lot more energy than I thought, I managed to roll over and face her. I smiled up at her, and she smiled down at me. We shifted slightly, and kissed through the tears. _This_ was what love was. I'd never felt it before, and I've never felt it stronger than I did then. I knew—knew in my soul—that she loved me; and I loved her. Only death would break that bond, and we would fight it as long as we could. But in the end I would have to let go.


	25. Communication

I hear a quiet sniff from the far end of the couch. I can't look up; can't look our daughter in the eyes. Not now. I don't want to see her hurting, and I don't want her to see my pain. I've finished telling her about that fateful day. She's more mature—and stronger—than I give her credit for sometimes. I can feel her arms around my shoulders, and her cheek pressed into mine. I can feel her tears, as I'm sure she can feel mine. We won't look at each other—we can't, yet—but letting someone else know they're loved doesn't need sight. Or sound. I smile softly, my arms around our daughter. It's all about feeling.

"Thank you, mom," Joan sniffles again, her chin on my shoulder. "I'm sorry that hurt you."

"I knew it was coming…" I sigh. "I knew it, and it still hurt." Joan kisses me on the cheek. "But you asked, and you deserve to know your mothers' story."

"I… I'm not sure I'll be able to handle the ending," she sniffs again, sitting slightly apart from me. "I mean, I know it, it's just—you're really good at telling this story."

"What, just this?" I give her a mock frown. "Not Peter Rabbit? or Three Little Pigs?" She laughs. It quickly turns sombre.

"It's just… I'm… I don't know…" she frowns, looking away. "It's like I really know Elsa now—how you saw her."

"And how she's your mother, too."

"Yeah," Joan sighs, suddenly snuggling into my side, her voice wistful. "I wish I could really meet her…"

Baby, you don't know how much it _hurts_ to hear you say that. I so often wish she could have met you. I dream about it sometimes too. And you, up there, frowning at me, aren't telling me anything I don't know. Why don't you come to _her_ in a dream for once, stinker. I'm sorry, it's just… well, you already know.

"It's not enough…" my voice trails off. I can't think how to finish. We just sit for a while, Joan nestled into my side, my arm around her shoulders, keeping the world away. Just for now. Just for a little while. Until we're both ready to move again.

"Can we—Can we talk about this later?" Joan's voice is tentative; I'm not sure why.

I just nod. "Hey, you want some of dad's hot chocolate?"

"Yeah, I kinda do," she smiles. "That can fix anything, right?"

"Very nearly," I tousle her hair. "Come on, I think that's enough sadness for this afternoon." And now I have to put on a brave face, because I don't want her to know just how deeply telling this story is starting to affect me. I'm afraid she might want me to stop telling her, seeing it hurting me. I used to put on a brave face so much it was second nature—it's harder now, but I can still manage it. Kristoff, at least, knows how to see through it. He nods slowly, gesturing upstairs. We'll talk, later.

Joan takes her hot chocolate and walks out. Very much _not_ what I was expecting.

"You know she can see right through you?" Kristoff's hand rests on my shoulder.

"What?" Damn. For the record, I blame you, Elsa. "She's too smart for her own good."

"Talk with her; before you talk with me."

"But we'v—"

"Feistypants, you've been telling her the story about her mother, you haven't been talking about it—about her."

I sip my hot chocolate, chewing one of the marshmallows to buy time as I stare at the floor. He's right, and I should've seen it sooner. She asked me directly not ten minutes ago. I am an _idiot_ sometimes—and hey, what do you mean 'sometimes'?. A quiet breath as it strikes me that this is exactly what I should be talking to Joan about. I've been telling her about Elsa, about us, as a couple, but I haven't told her any more about me, about what all this means, and she's hinted about wanting to meet Elsa more than once in the past and why didn't I pick up on it then and—silence suddenly surrounds me.

Kristoff kneels next to me, his forehead against mine. I can hear—feel—his slow, deep breaths. In time I manage to match his rhythm. He smiles at me as I open my eyes. "Go. I can always make another cup for you."

I go, kissing him on the cheek before heading upstairs. I take a deep breath before I knock on Joan's door. This feels like a big moment. She knows already, or can guess, but she deserves actually hearing it from me. She's fifteen, after all, and a lot stronger than I might give her credit for. She had to be, growing up while I figured out how to mourn and remember the love of my life. I still think she gets that strength from you—that same strength that made you push me away so much at the start. A love so selfless it hurts. The door opens.

I lie on the bed next to Joan. "I'm not okay."

"And that's okay," she pats my arm. There's an odd silence. I can almost see her frown. "I guess Elsa told you that a lot too."

"She did, baby, she did."

"Do you still think about her—I mean, when you're not telling me your story?"

"Sometimes," I find myself nodding softly. "More on days like this, of course."

"What's it like?"

"Well today it's kinda sad. I remember how much it hurt for her to move sometimes, or be touched, or she'd feel so sick and there was nothing I could do about it."

"You still fuss over me when I'm sick or hurt."

"You want me to stop?"

"No!" I guess she didn't know I was asking in jest. "It's just…"

"I get it, baby, I do. I can't stand by and do nothing."

"And that's why it hurt so much when Elsa told you, right?" Joan holds up a hand so she can continue. "You _knew_ you couldn't do anything—that there wasn't anything anyone could do. And you both knew it was too late. You could never stop loving each other." I'm about to answer when she snuggles up next to me and adds four words that fill me with pride and quietly crush me.

"And you never did."

I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek, but I'm not sure if it's from pride or shame. She's hugging me tight, like she hasn't been angry with me for the last month. But things change—and having her cast press into my back isn't entirely comfortable. I'm pretty sure it's not good for her either. I roll slightly, taking the weight of my shoulders off her arm. My arms fold around her, holding her close.

"Sometimes…" I whisper softly over her head. "Sometimes you remind me so much of her."

"And I still wonder how much of her is really in me. I wonder if she would like me for who I a—"

"She would, I know it."

"—who I am. I wonder what she would think of my fencing. Or what she'd think of Tink and me together and—"

I get the distinct feeling she wasn't meant to say that last part out loud. "Go on," I tease. "Make me believe it never happened." I can nearly feel her blush through my shirt. Oh, so busted. But I'm not mad. I'm not going to lecture her. Instead I take us back to the point. "You were wondering what Elsa would have thought of you?"

"Yeah—about a lot of things."

"I think she'd be proud of you—you're not her, you're not me, and you're not dad. You're your own person, and that's all she ever really wanted me to be."

"So she'd like me even though I'm different from all of you?" Not quite, baby, not quite.

"She'd like you _because_ you're different."

"Oh." I know that tone, she's frowning in confusion. "You're sure? It doesn't make sense to me."

"Well, think about it this way: Why do _you_ like Tina?"

There's a drawn out silence as she begins to understand. She's perceptive, just like you were, but she's got some odd blindspots, just like me. She also knows how to deal with it, like Kristoff. She really is so much like us, and yet, she's none of us. I think she might be our best selves all in one person. Sure, maybe she has a few flaws, but nobody's perfect—and she's still our daughter. My daughter. She's the light of my life as much as you were the love of my life, and I wouldn't trade her for _anything_. Even more time with you.

"Mom?" Joan's poking me in the ribs.

"What?"

"You kinda zoned out for a bit."

"I was just thinking," I smile at her. "That even if I could have had more time with Elsa, I wouldn't take it."

"Why?" Confusion, and a hint of anger.

"Because it would mean I might not have _you_."

Joan basically falls on top of me in a massive hug, wincing as her left arm twists the wrong way. I wrap her up in my arms and burt my face in her hair as she presses close against my chest, listening to my heart. I know, she used to do this a child. You used to do it too. And me. I still miss you.

"I still miss her," I mumble into Joan's hair.

"You've made me miss her too," Joan mumbles back. We hug each other tighter. Kristoff comes to check on us later, only to find that Joan's fallen asleep on top of me, and I'm dozing softly, only half awake to his voice. I don't hear what he said, but I see his smile as he closes the door and lets us rest, mother and daughter as one.


	26. Concerns

 

 

 

Joan didn't go to fencing tonight, broken wrist and all. Instead we've just stayed up in the attic, talking about Elsa. Just talking. It's amazing how much I haven't told her while telling our story. Just little things, like how you loved winter back home; or the way you'd sometimes braid your hair—and the way those little flyaways annoyed you. Even one of the very simplest things, and it's kind of embarrassing because I was with you so long I just took it for granted.

"Elsa was left handed," she knows this anyway, but not how versatile you were. "Well, actually she was ambidextrous, but she'd use her left hand for most day to day stuff."

"Really?" the way Joan quirks just one eyebrow—it's just like you.

"And she also did that eyebrow thing you're doing."

"I do not do that eyebrow thing."

"Really?" And I raise both my eyebrows, staring her down.

"Okay, fine. But what was so important about Elsa being ambidextrous?"

"Well, it meant she could juggle a lot of things, and had really good multitasking. And one other thing." She has no idea. And for all the times you teased me with both hands…

"What other thing?"

"Also meant she could be really devious in bed."

"Mom!" Like I've said, can't help teasing people sometimes.

"You're fifteen, I figure you've at least experimen—"

"Just stop, please." Joan's holding her hands up, trying to look away and hide her flaming cheeks.

"Fine," I shrug. "But you might miss some key information in the story if—"

"Or you could just tell me and leave out those details, mom. It's bad enough me and Tink heard you all morning that time…"

"You think that's bad…" and I just leave it hanging there for her, just let her stew a little longer. I think she saw my devious smile, because she's wailing on me with her cushion now. "Okay—pfth—pillow fluff—how about I just tell you the rest of the story?"

And suddenly she's the picture of teenage patience, sitting, legs crossed, eyes expectant, surreptitiously grabbing her cushion back. I shake my head at the change, I just don't know how she does it. Then again, we could be like that too, and I guess it was kinda funny…

—∞—

"Anniken?" Elsa's voice was soft. Maybe she thought I was asleep. I wished I had been. I was drained, emotionally spent, and yet I just couldn't sleep. I rolled over to face her.

"I hate this."

"This?" She was more than a little surprised, especially since _I_ had asked if we could share the bed that night.

"Knowing…" I choked up a little. "Knowing you're dying."

"Anna," her voice was a soft sigh, and I could feel it as she shook her head. She pressed her forehead against mine. "I tried. I tried to push you away."

"And I was an idiot."

"Maybe," I felt her smile, her breath against my cheek. "But you are still _my_ idiot." It came with a kiss, and I couldn't help but wrap my arms around her after that. I fell asleep hugging Elsa, feeling her arms around me to keep the world away for just a little while.

* * *

Breakfast was fairly quiet, Elsa reading the paper spread out in front of her while she chewed on a piece of toast. If she'd been wearing a suit I would have sworn she was the husband in a sitcom. I'm fairly sure she caught me trying not to laugh at that as well, because she started hamming it up for all she was worth, angrily turning pages and frowning at sports results. Every now and then she'd take a sip of coffee and just glance at me over the lip of the mug. I could see how hard she was trying not to laugh.

"I'm the husband, right?"

"What?" I wasn't sure if I should be taking her seriously at this point.

"Well, we already agreed I'd wear the pants."

"I recall no such thing." It was true. I didn't. And half the time we were both wearing pants anyway. Jeans just seemed more practical.

"Well, our sitcom still needs a title, doesn't it?" Then she poked her tongue at me before finishing her coffee. It would be great if our life was a sitcom. There would be laughter, and tears, and drama—so. much. drama—but it would likely run longer than we really had. It still wouldn't be a sitcom. It was life, and we only got one. She must have seen the look on my face, because she dropped the act after that. I was still—still—processing that one revelation from the previous evening.

"Anna," Elsa's voice was far more serious this time. "Are you okay to work? Do you think maybe you should call sick?"

"I should be alright, we don't have anything big on right now."

"I do not think you are okay. I do not think you should work today," she sighed, and looked right at me with those crystal blue eyes. "Perhaps only the afternoon?"

I shrugged, throwing my hands wide. "I'm already up, I may as well go in."

"Then go." She turned away, folding the paper, and took her mug over to the sink. She stopped, standing next to the counter. I knew what she was staring at. It was still a reminder to me, too. Both of us had brushed against death not so long ago. And for both of us it had been deliberate. That thought sent a chill down my spine. I don't know why it did, or why I hadn't considered it before. Elsa caught it out of the corner of her eye. After rinsing out her mug she sat next to me at the table.

"We should fix the floor." I nodded in agreement. She was right. Of course, it actually took rather longer to get the kitchen floor fixed than either of us could have guessed at the time, but for some reason it never was a priority.

* * *

I made it to the workshop later in the morning. I arrived to hear a tinny voice echoing inside something, and to see Audrey handing something through a hatch to a disembodied hand. Well, at least that's what it looked like. It was Maurice inside the thing, of course. I could see the light he was moving around in there, and up top Kristoff noted down his occasional mutterings about parts and possible materials.

"Seventeen!" Maurice's voice echoed inside the machine. Audrey passed another spanner through the hatch.

Kristoff had me cutting out some new braces for the thing. I lost myself in the ritual of fabrication. I could run on autopilot while my mind tried to make sense of the previous night. Marking out the steel. How many years would we mark together? Quick math for kerf widths for the drop saw. Why hadn't she told me how long she had? The scream of the blade against the steel. Again, and again. Did she know—or was she too afraid to ask? Sparks bouncing off my mask. Was she going to burn out like them? The tang of ozone and carbonized steel. So different to her scent; crisp and sharp. I blinked, looking at the pile of parts. Was I really finished? Were we?

"Nice work," Kristoff clapped me on the shoulder, making me start. My train of thought ground to a halt. "I'd say it's about time for smoko." Maybe if I finished quickly I could find a way.

I checked the time on my phone. "I think I'll just keep going."

"At least stop for a drink." He was only trying to help.

"I'm fine." I turned away, shifting the pile of pieces to the welding bench and firing up the welder. There had to be a way.

"Earth," Kristoff shot over his shoulder. It took me a second to realize he was referring to the cables. I had the torch for our heavier TIG and had attached the earth from our light unit. I sighed, rolling my eyes. It wasn't the first mistake I'd made. She had said it was incurable, but was it? I had clamped the pieces down and picked up the torch in my right hand and the wire in my left. My helmet was already down. Incurable didn't mean hopeless.

Then why had she tried to throw herself under my bike?

I just stopped, staring at the pieces. She had had every intention of dying that day. I knew what I had to weld, but I just couldn't do it. Not a single seam. Not even a tack. She had even sounded disappointed that I _hadn't_ killed her. I just stood there, hands shaking, paralyzed. It had finally hit me. Everything she had tried so damn hard to save me from. All that pain, all the hopelessness, all the heartache. She was right. I should have called in sick.

"Anna?" it was Kristoff, his annoyance enough to make me look up. "You gonna weld that up or not?"

The welding rod slipped from limp fingers, clattering softly against the floor. Even my grip on the torch slipped for half a second. I put the torch down carefully next to the big TIG. Nothing seemed real anymore. I took off the mask, resting it on the bench next to the welder. I took one breath. Another.

"Kristoff, I…" I didn't know where to start.

"Anna?" Kristoff's voice was a lot softer. "Are you okay?"

I shook my head. It took every ounce of strength I had to hold my composure.

Kristoff gestured for me to follow him. I had to. The office was small, cramped. It was also reasonably soundproof, and had a blind for privacy. I couldn't recall a time those blinds had been closed outside of… well… ever. The first thing Kristoff did was close them. I understood then that this was not for his benefit, but mine. I sat heavily, burying my face in my hands. I don't know how long it was before either of us spoke, but it was Kristoff that tried first, making several false starts.

"Something happened to you last night," he wasn't judging. He was concerned. Gravely. "I've never seen you freeze up like that." He sighed. "Look, I guess, being your boss might make this awkward, but as your friend, I really am worried."

I wanted to look up. Smile for him. Something. But the carpet tiles… the pattern… I just kept tracing it, trying to distract myself from everything crashing down around me. It wasn't that I couldn't talk, I just didn't want to. Not in that moment, afraid my voice would break and he would see me at my worst—just like Elsa had. I was an idiot; but it was also lingering damage from the way Hans had treated me. I just shook my head. I did _not_ want to be breaking down at work. There was a job I was supposed to be doing, an important one. Kristoff didn't see it that way.

"It's bad, I get it," I almost heard the snap as he came to a decision. "Take the rest of the day off."

I had to look up at that. "Really?" Then mumbling. "Elsa was right."

"I… I'm just not sure I trust you to drive right now. Also, right about what?"

I ignored that first part. "I shouldn't have come in today."

"She told you not to?"

"Politely."

"So there's nothing wrong between you?"

"I…" I paused, looked him in the eye. It wasn't that there was anything wrong between us. There was something wrong _with_ one of us. I felt like I had to tell someone. I simply couldn't keep it bottled up inside. But would she let me? Was I supposed to tell anyone? Wasn't it _her_ secret? Didn't I have to keep this in trust—just between us? But I couldn't. I needed support. I needed help. More, I just wanted someone to talk to. I took a deep breath. Kristoff knew how to keep something in confidence. He was a friend. He was concerned about me. And he had also seen me with Elsa the most. In fact, he was the only one that had really seen us together. He was the only person I _could_ tell.

I closed my eyes, taking stock. There was a whole story to tell—or I could use maybe five words. "Elsa's dying."

Kristoff said nothing, just stared at me.

"Cancer. It's incurable," and I hated how matter-of-fact I was, like this was something that happened every day. Like I was telling him about the damn weather, or a stupid boring weekend.

"Grab your things."

"Kristoff?"

"Anna, you're devastated, and you're trying to hide it. Don't. I'll take you home."

—∞—

"So let me get this straight," Joan's giving me an odd look. "Dad just dropped everything, left those two in charge, and ran you home. All because you told him Elsa was dying?"

"It's more complicated than that, but one thing you have to remember is that he studied Human Factors for a long time before trying to build the company."

"And…?"

"And it means he knew he wouldn't be getting any more useful work out of me that day. He was probably right not letting me drive, too."

"Yeah, Dad's pretty smart."

"I don't remember much else from that day. Maybe a little conversation in the van, then flaking out on the couch until Elsa got home."

"It took you a while, didn't it, mom?"

"It did," I shake my head sadly. "Grief is weird sometimes. I didn't realize it at the time, but I _was_ grieving; for everything we would never have. Birthdays, anniversaries, children."

"Well… you keep forgetting the first two," like I've said, people tease me back—I expect no less. "But were you really thinking about kids back then?"

"Not really thinking, but in abstract. You know, where most relationships eventually end up."

"In bed, you mean?" I smack her with my cushion. Yeah, not very mature, but we wind up having a dusty pillow-fight in the attic. It ends with her sitting on top of me, slowly sliding down so our eyes are level. "Did you and her ever have stupid fun like this?"

"Lots," I give our daughter a stupid grin and pull her into a tight hug. "Maybe one day I'll tell you about how we polished the upstairs hallway."

"What?" I leave it hanging. I remember your smile as we skated up and down the hall in our socks, crashing into everything and each other. Didn't we put the old mattress on the stairs? I can't remember right now. All I remember is your smile, and it's enough.

 


	27. History

It's a nightmare.

Okay, not really. But Naveen's wirer is in about 50,000 pieces in front of me right now. They're organised across a bench running the length of the workshop. It might be an idea to point out said bench is made of stacks of pallets and covered with layerboards and parts bins. We—meaning myself, Kristoff, Audrey, and Maurice—have been responsible for doing a teardown on this thing. It had a major crash a couple of days ago, and now that we're finally into the guts of it we can see exactly what went wrong.

I think.

Because the main push-rods are supposed to have bearings on them that run in the cam track on the guide plate. _Supposed_ to. Three of them are missing, and on the cam plate there is a massive ding out of one side, and scratches through the hard-chromed surface. That we'll have to outsource—if it can even be repaired at this point. Probably can, but it'll be a hell of a job. Me… I just have to remove what's left of the damaged bearings, then install new bearings on the end of every push-rod. It's only just after lunch, but I know we'll be back tomorrow—Saturday—and maybe even Sunday. Naveen has the line down for two weeks, but right now I'm not sure if that's too optimistic or too pessimistic.

The rest of the day is pretty standard fare, and late in the afternoon my mind is starting to wander, thinking about you, thinking about where I am in telling our story to Joan. I think the next thing was finding the necklace in the attic. Okay, yeah, maybe I should have told her that when we were up there, but then I'd be telling things out of order and you know I hate doing that. I come back to reality, staring at the crap scattered over my section of the bench. I start tidying up, picking up discarded packaging and collecting old and worn parts into a large parts bin—those'll go in the scrap bin later.

The day's very nearly over when Kristoff sidles up next to me. "I know you've had a hard day, but," I shrug. I knew we were coming in tomorrow anyway. "Tonight I'm going to—" and he whispers something very, very naughty in my ear. I find it incredibly hard not to blush at that. I think I manage. Just.

"I'll hold you to that."

"Oh, I hope you do, feistypants, I hope you do…" God he knows how to get me going. Well he should, we've been married more than 15 years now. I still can't help but wonder what _we_ would have done, if you'd survived. Well, maybe what he just promised me. I can just imagine your blush if I'd said it that way too. Sometimes you were just so much fun to tease. I can't help but be a little distracted as we tidy up ready for tomorrow. Still, it's probably a good thing weekend work never really bothered any of us.

Back at home at last, and me and Kristoff are in the kitchen, cooking dinner, and doing more than a little teasing. It's always been fun to cook with him. It was entertaining trying to teach you how to cook, but that might not be entirely fair. Still, I remember a time we were tempted to try eating breakfast off each other, and yes, my mind keeps going there. What? I'm an adult after all. I should probably be paying attention to the spices though, doing the steaks carefully because of each us likes different spice mixes. I mix vegetables for the salad while Kristoff checks on the cubed potatoes in the oven.

"So, Anna," Kristoff is turning the potato cubes as he talks. "How much have you told Joan of your story?"

I flip the steaks again as I reply. "I've just told her about how you took me home from work."

"The first time?"

"Yeah, the first time. I'd honestly forgotten about the others."

"Well, they weren't quite as bad," he laughs, probably remembering the same thing I am. "They also might have been my fault."

I spread my hands in a non-committal gesture. "I don't think anyone thought the chains would snap lifting that tank out. Also, I think wrecking the bottom section of that tank was more expensive than squashing my bike. I guess we're lucky Naveen let us stay."

"He was there, supervising, _and_ he was also the one that set the whole thing up. It was just unfortunate the tank fell that way when the chains snapped. Really, it's lucky the damn thing didn't crush the distillery outbuilding."

Shit… That's right, they were still using it. It was only about a year, year and a half later that the outbuilding was torn down and the distillery itself upgraded instead. Either way, it was a close call, and that meant paperwork. I actually remember us helping Naveen fill out what felt like six months worth of paperwork. And a small claim for my Ninja. It was also one of the few times we've had to use the company's liability insurance—for the tank and the damage, not my bike.

The door to the dining room swings open, Joan's head peeking through, braid swinging past her shoulders. "Hey, is it ready yet?"

"Nearly. Why don't you set the table, Snowflake?" I can feel Kristoff moving behind me as he speaks. He's up to something.

"Yes, especially as the Reindeer King's hands seem to be a little preoccupied right now." Definitely up to something—my apron just felt a little looser.

"Okay—and eww." I try not laugh at the way she's screwing up her face right now. Really, I do, but Kristoff just did something behind my back I can't ignore. "Mom! That is _not_ helping!"

"Y'know, sooner or later you're going to have to accept that we still have a sex life." And now she's pointedly not looking at us as she grabs plates and cutlery. It's probably for the best she doesn't see me spanking Kristoff for what he just did.

"I heard that. You two are worse than—"

"Teenagers?" Kristoff cuts her off. "Were you going to say a pair of teenagers? Like you and Tina?"

I have to put a hand over my mouth to hide my laughter. I did not know she was capable of turning that shade of pink. Course she's probably gonna get us back later, but that's part of the fun. I turn back to the oven and turn the pan off, flipping the steaks one last time. Saw that trick on a cooking show ages ago—now I wish I could remember which one.

"Truce," I hold up my hands. "Let's just have dinner."

And we do. I even let Joan try a little wine. Just a taste really. She doesn't like it, and from the look she's giving me I guess she's wondering how anyone could like it. The rest of the evening is uneventful—at least while Joan's around. Well, we'll get to that in a bit. Right now though, I'm sitting at the foot of Joan's bed, and she's sitting next to me, leaning into my shoulder.

"So I can really go next weekend?"

"To watch, yes."

She looks disappointedly at the lattice cast around her left wrist. "I couldn't fight anyway."

"There's always next year, baby," I wink at her. "Assuming you don't try stealing people's cars again and running away with your girlfriend."

"Yeah, I guess. But next year's a long way off."

"It's already mid-October."

"Mo–om."

"I know," I have one arm around her shoulders in a loose hug. "I told you about Elsa's necklace, right?"

"Her snowflake one?"

"That's the one. I told you I forgot it in the attic too. It's about time I tell you when we found it—also, because it was a couple of days after Kristoff dropped me home from work, and he'd convinced me to take a couple of days off. Doctor's Orders."

"You always did hate that…"

—∞—

"It's not a negotiation, Anna. You're staying home. I'll call Isabella and have her tie you to the bed if I have to."

"But…"

"No. Stay home. We've got this," he eventually relented. "Look, it's a three man job at the most, and probably only two for ninety percent of it. Think of it as an extra-long long weekend."

"Kristoff, I'm going nuts just staying here."

"Then go out somewhere with her; enjoy your life—lives. Hold up, Mel's trying to get through."

I hung up. I wanted to do _something_. _Anything_. The hardest part of doing nothing was actually the nothing. I sighed, glad Elsa was out for the morning. I frowned—I couldn't be sure if it was physio or treat—no, wait, Friday, so it had to be treatment. I knew what I would see when she got back; what she didn't want me to see. Something she still didn't know I _had_ seen. There were questions too; questions I should have asked that first night. Or any time between then and now. My mind always was kind of scattered.

Then I remembered the necklace. The one I'd bought for her. I'd stashed it in the attic, wanting to bring it out as a surprise for her. Turned out I'd forgotten exactly _where_ in the attic I'd hidden it. So that was it, I was going to have to clean the attic to find it. I shrugged, traipsing up the stairs. I could not remember the last time I had properly cleaned it. Some time after moving in with Hans. I absently itched at the scar beneath my breast. _Surely I've cleaned it since then_.

I opened the hatch and pulled down the stairs to the attic. When the light was on it became clear I hadn't cleaned the place in a very long time. There was a book in one corner. Something vaguely familiar. I dusted off the cover, realising it wasn't just a book, but an old photo album. The back was empty, no loose photos waiting to find a place. No missing memories. I flicked to the front, and on the second page I saw my name in smooth, flowing calligraphic script. The album was older than I thought.

I sat, cross-legged, leafing slowly through the pages. Thankfully there were only a handful of baby pictures—but in all of them I seemed to have a shock of ginger hair. I guess I really was born with it. I shrugged, turning another page. I was six. Lilo was there, and my cousin Rapunzel—I don't think she ever forgave her step-mother for the name. Nani, Lilo's sister/caretaker is in the background with my mom, and Rapunzel's step-mother. Everyone looked so happy back then. Maybe it was the birthday cake.

Suddenly I was driven to wonder if I would ever be one of those background parents. Me—or Elsa. It was crazy, thinking about children, but… _Would she?_ _Did I? And when?_ It was all too jumbled up to really think about. I turned the page, ignoring the photo of me in that horrible Christmas sweater. Just photos of everyday life, me and my parents. A younger Hans is in a few of them. Kristoff isn't. One of my old projects from shop class, putting the boys to shame.

Junior prom. I remembered how awkward the dress was, and how I simply didn't have the figure to fill it out. I also remembered several attempts at using various kinds of padding to help the situation. It didn't. Hans in a suit—it was hard not to rip that photo in half. After junior prom. I still wasn't sure if I was happy with my father immortalising that kiss on the porch. A few more everyday photos. I turned the page again.

Only a single faded Polaroid. Stained and faded. The corners were dog-eared, and the right edge was starting to crack. I must have put it in there for safe keeping—the last time I ever saw my parents. We all wore such happy smiles. I had to wonder then if they would have been proud of what I'd done; what I'd made of myself. Gently dabbing at my misty eyes, I put the album in a box on its own. A box for things I wouldn't let go.

The next few boxes were just old junk, a couple of small broken appliances, and clothes I never wore. I figured maybe I'd donate them to an op-shop. If the moths hadn't eaten them. There were three—no, four, one peeking out from behind that beam there—boxes of clothing. After a quick search through the clothes I stacked the boxes up against the back wall. There was still no sign of the necklace I'd bought. I was beginning to think I might have imagined it—except for the number printed on that receipt that first made me do a double-take.

I found an old CD though. Several, in fact. Three of Evanescence's early albums, and Metallica's Black album. I pulled my phone from my jeans' pocket and started scrolling through all my playlists. I couldn't decide, so just threw the first Evanescence album on shuffle, then put my phone back in my pocket. I hummed along with the song, shifting more of the mess around, but one verse really struck me, the words crystal clear.

"I'll miss the winter  
A world of fragile things  
Look for me in the white forest"

It just made me think of Elsa. She was cold like winter, but also had its secret warmth. She was fragile—physically, at least. And I had gone looking for her. The rest of the verse was just words, but those three lines stood out. Crazy, perhaps, but not untrue.

A sudden downpour against the roof made me start, looking around for danger. I sighed, shivering slightly as rain pelted down against the roof. I looked at the time on my phone. Time for a snack at least—that it would get me out of the attic was just an unintended bonus.

—∞—

"You really, really didn't like storms, did you, mom?"

"No, I didn't. Not then. It was still a while before Elsa showed me their beauty too."

"Hmm," there's a pause as she frowns, remembering. "And what's a Polaroid; some special kind of picture?"

"Essentially. There used to be a camera that would instantly print your photos. The company that made it was called Polaroid. They got so big—and had so many kinds of camera—that people just started calling pretty much any of those instant pictures 'Polaroids'."

"Cool. So, did you and Elsa…?"

"I lost mine before I met Elsa. They stopped making the film paper not long after anyway, so it would have been pretty pointless."

"Oh." She actually seems pretty disappointed by that revelation.

"So, after snacks, I went back to try and find that infernal necklace."

—∞—

I left the door unlocked for Elsa before climbing into the attic again. The rain hadn't lasted long. I found another photo album—of me and Hans. I frowned at the pictures; at him; at me. I'd been a different person then. Maybe that night I had died. The old me, and the new me rose from the ashes. I shrugged, idly tossing the album aside. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't. I found an old journal—when I'd hidden that in the attic I had no idea. More recent than the album though, because in it I'd written a lot of notes about Kristoff, and Audrey, and our first few jobs for Naveen. The last scribbled entry had something about— _is that really how I spelt Lefou's name?_

Downstairs I heard the door creak open. Elsa was home.

"Anna?" her voice barely carried up the stairs. "Anniken, are you here?"

I crawled to the hatch. "Up here Elsa!"

"You'll make me climb stairs?"

"I'm cleaning."

"I'm helping. I've seen your room."

"Ouch." But I waited patiently at the top of the attic stairs, taking her hand as she climbed the last few steps. She sat next to me, both of us cross-legged, taking in the piles of boxes around me.

"You are not just cleaning, are you, Anna?"

I looked around at the old photo albums and CD cases. She was right. "I haven't been up here in a while, and being off work has made me a little stir-crazy."

"I am not sure you needed today off."

"Well, he claimed it was because it was only a small job today."

She frowned, cocking her head to the side, suspicious.

"It probably was," I sighed, looking around. "I just hate not being able to _do_ anything."

"Sometimes doing nothing is important," she changed the subject so quickly I thought I heard gears clashing. "Keep there and throw away there?"

I nodded. My system wasn't hard to figure out. Also, the 'keep' pile was a lot smaller. We worked slowly, taking our time, and as we threw around certain items I told her more of my past. More about my parents. About the earliest days with Hans, back in high school. About Lilo, and my cousin. She told me about Norway, about growing up in an empty house despite how hard her parents tried to help. She talked about mergers and corporate deals that kept her father away. How hard her mother worked as a nurse. How they'd taken a cruise on that ill fated ferry around the Polynesian islands. She had a company, but no idea how to run it. Money, but no idea how to invest.

She hired a lawyer, sold the company, then allowed the new board to buy out her shares. She took advice and invested wisely, but locked the money in a trust—to remove the temptation, or so she claimed. Her being rich—or pseudo-rich, or whatever—just didn't matter. Only she did. I told her as much. I tried to hide my smile at her blush. Then, then I knew I had to ask the hard questions; the ones I was afraid of. Because she was important, and so were her problems.

"Can I…" I coughed softly, clearing my throat. "Can I ask what kind of cancer it is?"

I could the battle raging behind her eyes. She was fighting against some inner demon and this time, at least, it wasn't up to me to intervene. Eventually she sat against the wall, sighing, looking at her legs. She shook her head—maybe to clear it—and then spoke softly towards the floor.

"Stage III pancreatic cancer. It might even be stage IV. They didn't tell me my chances, but I could look them up. Three percent. _Three percent_ to be alive in five years. Three percent, with every possible treatment running through me. I don't know if I can fight that long."

I knew it sounded trite, but I said it anyway. "I'll fight it with you. Every day."

She sniffed, then laughed. I loved that quiet little laugh. "You really are my idiot, Anniken." Only she could get away with calling me an idiot like that. And so often too.

"Insults, my icy queen?" I let her hear every ounce of mischief in my voice. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't a dusty pillow at fifty miles an hour. Sprawled flat on my back I could hear her muffled laughter from across the room. "You know, of course, that this means war?" Another pillow flew my way. I picked both up and flung them back at Elsa. One hit, messing up her hair. She frowned, picking up the offending pillow.

"Now it's personal."

She chased me around the attic with that pillow, and I couldn't remember a time I'd had more fun. It was mid-afternoon by the time we settled down. We'd made a little fort with an old blanket and the pillow ammunition, and she sat in the middle of it, me nestling against her left side, our fingers intertwined. It was a moment of grace, something unexpectedly beautiful. It also put me in mind of something else beautiful, and I pulled out my phone.

"Really, Anna?"

"Shush you, I wanna show you something." She leaned closer as I flicked through the pictures on my phone.

"Who's that?" A blonde goddess sprawled out on my bed, face relaxed, smiling in her sleep. "Is that—is that _me?_ " I just nodded. "I look so peaceful."

"That's how _I_ see you, Elsa. I saw what we could be."

"Even though you know I'm going to hurt you?" I shifted slightly against her, trying to get more comfortable.

"It's not your fault, I was already in too deep." It wasn't her, it was the pillow behind us. I yanked it out and threw it gently across the room.

"And to stubborn to see reason." The pillow fell from the box it had landed on. I heard a rustling, then a soft thud. Something slightly curved and covered in velvet poked out from behind the box. Elsa shifted her weight, leaning over me, squinting at the box. "Anna, what's behind that box?"

"I don't know." I knew. Elsa rose slowly, stepping over to the velvet covered box.

"It looks like a jewellery box." _Of course it does, because it_ is.

I looked away, pulling up one knee to wrap my arms around. I couldn't do much more than whisper. "Open it." She did.

The way she cocked her head, the slightly raised eyebrow. I knew that look—she was confused. "It's… it's…"

"It's for you, dummy." She turned to look at me, clearly unsure of what was happening. _Wait, does that kind of jewellery mean something different in Norway?_ If it did, I was in so much trouble. And if it didn't, then what was her problem? Was it possible it was too much? Did she not like snowflakes? She just stood there, holding the necklace box for what seemed like an eternity. Or maybe it was ten seconds. Time was being weird that day.

"Is it…" I coughed softly, a false start. "Do you like it?"

"I do. It looks very nice."

"But…?"

"But it looks expensive. I did not think you could afford such things." I know it wasn't meant as a slight, but it still stung. I knew I was drawing down a more than decent wage.

"Maybe once or twice a year. I thought it would last, you could remember me by it."

"You bought before you knew, didn't you?"

I sighed, finally standing, moving next to her. "The day I found out."

The smile forming on her lips, the sudden gleam in her eye. She knew. "The camera." I nodded. I didn't need to say any more. I lifted the necklace from its box, gently opening the clasp. And yes, she saw me struggling with it three times before it finally decided to play nice. She lifted her hair out of the way—but before I gave her the necklace I kissed her on the cheek, lips brushing against soft, warm skin. She raised a hand to touch her cheek as I secured the clasp behind her neck. I arranged the necklace so the pendant hung on the front of her shirt. That it gave me a reason to brush against her breasts for a little longer than normal probably shouldn't be mentioned. Oops. I blushed, but I'm pretty sure she saw straight through me anyway. She caught my hands with hers, pulling me into a tight hug. I knew I'd made the right choice.

She wore that necklace until the day she died.


	28. Dawn

So, rebuilding the wirer for Naveen was not, in fact, terrible. Actually, getting that deep into the inner workings of a machine was fascinating. I mean, I've done teardowns before, but this was something else. Putting it back together was occasionally confusing—for all of us—but now I can really see how everything connects and I'm starting to wonder how just one person could have planned all this. Okay, maybe Da Vinci, but it _is_ actually that complicated. And you… I guess you would've been fascinated to see the insides of this thing too. You weren't always too interested when I talked shop, but the few times I showed you things. I loved that odd little smile you had when you were figuring things out.

So, it's taken about a week and half, so I guess Naveen had a good idea how long it should take. Now it's late on Tuesday night—very late—but we've got it running, putting about a hundred bottles through to test it. If it works, we don't have to come back tomorrow. I'm behind the machine, watching the first bottle go through. We're inching it first so we can see the mechanisms at work. Then we'll run it at line speed. So first the magazine drops a wire on the bottle, and a pedestal lifts it against a cradle, then a hook comes down through the wire loop and twists around, then the hook lifts, and a nose-block presses the wire flat against the bottle. And it does all this while moving around a central carousel with 12 heads working simultaneously.

I told you it was complicated. I can't help the little grin I have. Especially now we're moving at line speed and it's wiring two bottles every second. Sure, the whole process might take _six_ seconds, but there are _twelve_ heads on the machine. You know what, I'm not 100% on the math either, but it's late. We kinda wanna go home. Well, we want this to work right so we can have a day off tomorrow, but mostly we want to go home. Less than a minute to get through the remainder of those hundred bottles.

Everything's working, and a quick system check proves it's not a fluke, so now all four of us just have to pack the tools in the van. Well, Kristoff and Maurice are doing most of the loading. Me and Audrey are checking for rogue tools where we've been working throughout the evening. We're clear, and while Audrey goes to wash her hands, I head back to hit the lights. Darkness does something… strange… to the production hall. I don't really know how to describe it, even after nearly twenty years. It's not dark, or haunted, or dangerous, or anything like that. It's more—I don't know, melancholic, maybe? It's something about the light. In the light it looks normal. In the darkness it just seems… empty isn't the right word. It's not like it's waiting either. It's something else; like this place _knows_ it needs the light, but doesn't know why.

Shaking my head, I walk back through the workshop, also dark. Enough light comes in through the windows from the spotlights outside to see. I wash my hands in the dark, drying them on a rag before stepping out the side door. The van's already running, and they're waiting for me. With a tired sigh I pull myself into the passenger seat. At the main entrance security gives us the once over and Audrey and Maurice jump out, heading for their own vehicles. The guard gives us the thumbs up, and we're off.

"You feel like cooking tonight?" For some reason Kristoff doesn't sound nearly as tired as I feel. I just shake my head. "Take out?"

I shrug.

"We'd have to get changed to hit a restaurant—and you'd be waiting longer." Damn it, but he has a point.

"What about that chicken place?"

Kristoff glances at the clock on the dash. "Nah, they'll have shut half an hour ago."

I look at the clock on the dash. Ten. At night. What the hell happened to the time?

"Well, those tests took us at least half an hour, and so did tidying up. You know what it's like in there." He's right, I do. Doesn't mean I'm not grumpy about it sometimes.

"Okay, so options?"

"Well, we _could_ cook something. Or buy some cheap takeout. And no, I'm not getting Joan to cook for us, it's late enough as it is."

"Hey, we both know she doesn't sleep until at least midnight."

"Beside the point. Hmm…"

"'Hmm…' what, Reindeer King?"

"What if we had a picnic?"

"It'll be midnight by the time you're ready for that."

"Lies. Anyway, I don't think Joan would mind too much if we just asked her to make some sandwiches and leave the biscuits out, right?"

"You just said I couldn't make her cook."

"It's not cooking. And how long do you think it'll take her to make half a dozen sandwiches anyway."

I look away, out the window, at the familiar lights passing us by. He's right, and while half my mind is already working on texting Joan, the other half is hoping the weather holds. And then there's that little part, hidden away, reminding me about the last picnic you and I had. At midnight, on the hospital roof. Last time we broke bread, and I swear you brought that crusty old loaf on purpose, but I can't avoid thinking about what happened afterwards. About how I entered that building as your wife, but left as your widow.

I knew it would happen, but I still wasn't prepared.

I can see the tears in my reflection, and I know Kristoff has noticed my sudden silence. I can't help it. He has to keep his mind on the road, and I know how much he wants to do something, anything, to help. I let the tears fall, sniffling slightly. I pat Kristoff's shoulder, enough that he knows I'll be okay, even though I'm not. I can't remember the rest of the drive, but I do remember the clouds clearing up when we got home.

And now we're both lying on a warm blanket on the cold lawn out the back, half-eaten sandwiches and half-drunk glasses of wine beside us. The air is getting chilly for October, but right now, I really don't mind. Kristoff has his arms around me, and I pull the blanket over the both of us, the rest of our wine going on the lawn. Kristoff laughs, pulling me closer. It's only wine, and maybe the grass'll grow half-cut. I have to explain why I'm sniggering, but it's worth it, both of us happy, cocooned in this blanket and each other.

"In the van," Kristoff asks softly. "What was it?"

"Our last picnic."

"Our—oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. I'm the mess here, and I won't have you taking credit for it," I kiss him on the cheek. "Besides, we have the day off tomorrow, and Joan's gonna be at school all day. Don't tell me you haven't made plans."

"Well there's getting the van tuned up, and I need a new shirt in case Audrey invites us to any more parties, and then Maurice had some tooling done that I can shift to the worksh—ow."

"And you didn't think to includ—"

"You must be tired," and he just gives me a look. Oh yes, he was most definitely teasing me. Like I've said, I expect no less from the people around me. And he's right, I'm damn tired. I think I might be falling asleep in this weird blanket/sleeping-bag thing. But, I'm getting older, and sleeping on the lawn isn't going to do my back any favours tomorrow. Untangling the blanket, I sit up slowly, nibbling on a sandwich that—I think—I was lying on. Yeah, I'm gonna need to wash a few things. From the look he's giving me, I think my husband is one of them.

* * *

It's now late on Wednesday afternoon, and I'm helping Joan prepare for the grand melee this weekend. I will admit that it's arrived rather faster than I thought it would. You might ask why we're packing on a Wednesday, as opposed to, say, Friday? Well, short answer is that the event also covers Friday. The slightly longer answer is that Joan will be staying to camp with the other kids she trains with. She even managed to get the doctor's okay to have her cast removed tomorrow—on the stipulation she avoids strenuous activity with that wrist for at least three to five days, or basically, the entire grand melee.

"I _have_ been camping before, mom."

"Yes, but Phil insists that this will be an authentic medieval style camp, so you'd better brace yourself for a few things."

"I'm pretty sure they have to have modern toilets for hygiene reasons; grass isn't that terrible to sleep on; and the period clothes don't take _that_ much effort to put on."

"Okay, you've probably got me on number 1—don't laugh, it's terrible—wet grass can be terrible to sleep on, sometimes, although sometimes if you fall asleep in the yard someone'll carry you idside. And lastly, you're thinking of the men's clothes. I wore one of those outfits to a ren faire once at Elsa's behest. I had to get her help dressing and undressing, I simply couldn't do it all myself."

"Just…" she starts angry, but trails off suddenly. It sounds weird when someone else does it.

"What, baby?"

"Just… let me make my own mistakes for this one," turning around to smile at me, she throws another piece of linen into her travel bag. "I won't learn anything if I you don't let me make some mistakes."

"Like running away with your girlfriend." I am a terrible person. I hope she can't see my smile.

"That's not—this isn't—it's different."

"I know." I hold up a bra she's flung across the room. "If you're going for period accuracy, you wouldn't be wearing these."

"I think I'm a bit young for your kind of corset."

"One: that is a normal corset, which can be underwear, outerwear, or sexywear dependin—"

"Eww."

"—and two: corsets can be made to size, and often were. Still are—I've seen a lot of cool steampunk stuff involving corsets."

"But that's steampunk. Also, you think a corset is a good idea?" and now she's turned pensive. "I mean, really, is it? Should I?"

"Well, it's a trade, either you're comfortable; or you're very dedicated to the role."

She takes the bra I'm holding without a second thought. "Comfort."

"That said, corsets aren't really uncomfortable. They just feel different. And help keep things up."

"Thanks, mom." The sarcasm could etch glass.

We get back to packing, only for her to stop suddenly and ask about the ren faire we went to. I explain that it's a way off in the story yet, but it is important—I don't tell her that until very recently I'd actually all but forgotten it. I also promise that when we're done packing—or maybe after dinner—I'll tell her more of our story. A few of the minor points, but still worthwhile. We were still learning so much about each other.

True to my word, I start talking after we've finished packing. We're lying on Joan's bed, and she's pretending like she isn't trying to snuggle against me right now. I make no comment on that.

"So, it was the weekend before we really spoke. Thinking about it, that was probably just the next day, because it was a Friday when Elsa found the necklace and…"

—∞—

I'd woken up before Elsa that morning. So early, in fact, that it was still dark outside. I refused to get up before the sun did. Elsa rolled to face me, still half-asleep, a pained smile crossing her lips. I kissed her forehead and shuffled a little closer. She reached out and pulled me close, breathing softly in the darkness. I mumbled something about not being awake. She mumbled something about me being a spoilsport. I closed my eyes once more, but wrapped my arms around her before she could turn away. I didn't want to wake up, but I wasn't about to say no to just cuddling each other in the pre-dawn light.

I felt it as Elsa rested her head against mine, her hair brushing my lips, making it very hard not to twitch or sneeze. I had no idea my bedhead was so glorious it was virtually up her nose too. That's not important though.

"Not a morning person, are you, Anniken?"

I mumbled a vaguely coherent response.

"Uh… Anna?"

Well, at least I _thought_ it was coherent. I coughed, trying to clear my throat. "What gave me away?" My voice sounded very hoarse.

Elsa said nothing, just handed me the water from her nightstand. I guess it really was that bad. It's true though, I never have been a morning person—probably why I never did mind when we worked late shifts. I took a sip of water, and of course I nearly choked on it. I was, unfortunately, awake. Elsa was smiling at me.

"You did that on purpose."

"Maybe." She wasn't even _trying_ to deny it. "You are awake. I did not say you had to get up."

Hmm… "So, you want me all to yourself this morning?"

"Until dawn," she smiled. "I want to talk, with nothing between us."

Now I was intrigued. "About what?"

"Anything. You ask first."

"Did you think about killing you would have done to the person that hit you?" Oh, I was such an idiot, but it was the one thing—okay, one of several things—that I really wanted to know. And she had said _anything_.

I heard her taking in a deep breath, as if she was about to reply. She started to say something, stopped, started again, stopped mid-word, started, and then just shook her head. I was sure I'd blown it, yet again. This was not what people talked about before sunrise. I threw myself back against the pillows in frustration. _Why do I keep doing this to her?_

"Anna, it's okay," her hand found mine under the covers. "I just don't have an answer."

Not what I was expecting.

"Maybe try another question?"

A second chance? Well, I wasn't about to argue—and this time my brain was actually working. "Why did you decide on dance?"

"I like it. I'm good at it. It gives me freedom."

"You'd be freer if I hadn't broken your leg." _Oh, God, why do I keep doing this?_

"Maybe," she was ambivalent. "But free how?" She held up a hand to stop me talking. "Maybe I would be doing dance practice now. But maybe someone else hits me, and instead of finding you, I die."

"That's…"

"The truth, Anniken. It haunts me, sometimes." I saw her smile, so warm and bright, and the spark in her eyes, both so at odds with the weight of her words. "But you were always kind to me. Always. I tried to be silent. I acted like a bitch to drive you away. You always came back, and you were still nice to me. I couldn't see it—no, that's a lie—I didn't _want_ to see it, but I was starting to fall for you. I could see your confusion as you started to fall for me, and it was strange—I did not think it would happen; you were married, after all, even if it was to that bastard."

"But it was _you_ that saved _me_ , Elsa. You gave me the strength to finally leave him."

"I did not mean for you to nearly die trying, however."

"You know why, and how."

"I do," she snuggled up next to me. "And I want to tell you _my_ why, but I… I can't find the right words."

"I can think of three," I checked them off on my fingers as I spoke. "Cancer. Depression. Suicide."

"So very eloquent." she slapped my cheek playfully. "Maybe you are still only half awake."

I rolled on top of her, pinning her to the bed. I had some smart-ass comeback ready, but it was at that point I noticed just how close we were, and how little we were wearing. I saw the sudden flush of colour across her cheeks, and I could mine burning too. I didn't care. Our hair was in danger of getting tangled, copper strands falling about pale skin and twining with platinum locks. Our lips were dangerously close—so close I could feel the warmth of her breath against mine, and close enough that I could smell her—just her. Our lips met as she pulled me down on top of her, pressing our bodies together in all sorts of enjoyable ways.

I couldn't fight it as she rolled on top of me—I didn't want to either. I smiled. She kept saying she would be the one wearing the pants. Our lips lingered together, and as we pulled apart, I sighed.

"More of that and you might just turn me into a morning person."

She didn't reply, just pressed up close and rested her head against my shoulder. I wrapped an arm around her, and together we watched the sunrise through the curtains. It was less than spectacular, because, y'know, curtains. But neither of us felt like moving enough to open them. Neither of us felt like getting out of bed either. Unfortunately for both of us, my bladder decided it was the perfect time to wake up, and I _had_ to leave. Elsa laughed softly behind me.

* * *

I was out in the back yard, finally mowing the lawns as the rain began. It wasn't irony, it was justice—I'd put off doing this chore for too long, and now I was being punished. At least it was only a light rain. Of course it also meant the any stray grass clippings stuck to me like glue, and that by the time I was done my clothes would be soaking wet. I still didn't like rain, but I was determined to get this done, and ten minutes later it was. I was also covered in stray grass clippings, and wet. Very, very wet. Because just as I was putting the mower away the heavens opened and dumped several olympic swimming pools on me.

Elsa waved to me from the back door, holding it open for me. Also keeping a careful six inches away to avoid getting drenched. She squealed and ran when she saw my smile. Slipping halfway across the kitchen floor gave her an even bigger lead. The bathroom door was open, and I'd heard footsteps upstairs. I stepped into the bathroom. The door slammed behind me, and I heard laughter from the other side. I could take a hint, and fifteen minutes later, showered and changed, I sat at the table eating a late lunch with my girlfriend.

It felt weird, using that word, no matter how accurate it was.

"Anniken, you said you were general engineer, yes?"

I nodded, swallowing a bite of my food. "I did, yes. Why?"

"Why?"

"I asked—oh, you mean why did I become an engineer?"

"Yes. I haven't seen any female engineers before."

"Never thought of it like that. But I guess it comes down to me always being good with machines, and I guess a bit tomboyish. And maybe I got along really well with a couple of kids in shop class. Oh, oh, and when I first tried welding I found out I was a natural. First thing in school I was actually really good at."

"You weren't good at school?"

"Well, math I was alright at, but everything else kinda sucked. Or not really sucked, but I just wasn't that interested in it. Stupid thing is, now I love learning about everything like that, so maybe it's something to do with school I didn't like, not the actual subjects, and anyway I was talking ab out welding, right? Yeah, so it was great learning to weld, especially TIG. I mean you know I'm kinda scattered at times, but with this I could just focus, and it was like everything else went away—I mean everything. All I had to do, all I needed to see, was the weld. Stick in one hand, torch in the other, it was amazing."

Elsa was frowning at me. "That sounds kind of silly. You mean you forget about everything else?"

"Hey, don't mock me—and yes, while I'm welding. So, what about you and dancing?"

"I like the freedom. I can express myself. All I have to concentrate on are the movements, and I can just—"

Her expression was priceless. I knew _exactly_ what she was about to say, and so did she. She was not about to become the worlds biggest hypocrite. I gave her a knowing smile.

"I hate you right now, Anniken." I could see her smile as she frowned. "I have to take all that back."

"Or we're both silly, and lose ourselves in the moment, right?" my smile grew as her cheeks flushed. "Right?"

—∞—

"What, mom, you're just gonna leave it there?!"

"Do you have a good reason why I shouldn't, miss?"

"Umm… how about Elsa's reaction? Or whatever happened after lunch?"

"To the first, a great deal of embarrassment. To the second, I really can't remember. Probably crappy Saturday afternoon TV. Or maybe reading."

"No really deep conversations? No asking Elsa terrible questions? Elsa didn't try teasing you? Pillow fights?"

"No."

"That sounds…" I knew she was looking for a better word. "Boring."

"Sometimes life is, baby. Sometimes you need a bit of boredom though. After everything I'd been through that week, a boring weekend was actually really good for me. It gave me time to think, and process everything. Or at least it let me see things a little more clearly by the following week."

"So… boring is good sometimes?"

"Sometimes," I nod slowly. "But life has a way of making things interesting at the strangest times."

"Like finding out you're bi when you're sitting next to someone you nearly killed?"

The look my daughter just gave me…

"Go ahead, mom, tell me I'm wrong…"

Well, I did say life made things interesting. Sometimes I still am such an idiot—and I know you wouldn't have it any other way, smiling at me, all the way up there.


	29. Confidante

It's Sunday, I'm at the park with Belle, and it's not quite raining. Well, a light drizzle, but it's not like it's actually cold, which is weird given we're nearly in November. Hell, it's November tomorrow, and I'm kinda wondering where the year has gone. That's not really the issue right now though, because Belle's looking pensive, and I can tell she's got a lot on her mind.

"I'm worried, Anna."

"I kinda figured, given we're meeting alone. Did something happen with Adam?"

Adam is conspicuous by his absence. Belle takes her time in replying, pausing to lean against a nearby tree. A breeze teases her slightly messy hair, and I suddenly remember that day on the lake—the day before you dropped your phone in it. Of course, it wasn't your hair flying around then. I manage to get back to reality before Belle has answered my question about Adam.

"What? No. Nothing like that." She's blushing slightly, and has a distant smile. "It's more like… well, the future. I want a family one day."

"Does Adam?" Okay, that maybe shouldn't have been the first thing I said.

"No… well… he's worried too."

Now it's starting to make sense. I know parenthood changes a person—I mellowed out after I had Joan; and I got a little more positive. But this right now isn't about me. "You're worried about what would happen if Adam has one of his flashbacks while he's around a kid, right?"

"Well…" she sighs heavily, like she's finally accepted something. "Yes."

A sudden gust of wind and squall of rain drive us almost off the path. I shake myself down and Belle just looks frustrated. Well, if she didn't want to get wet she always could've asked to meet at my place. Thinking of meetings and talking to people…

"Have you talked about it—or has he talked about with his therapist?"

"I don't know, Anna. I haven't brought it up."

"Even with him?"

"We've talked; Adam wants to be in a healthier place before even thinking about having a family."

A smart decision, in my opinion. Not that I distrust Adam, but more that I feel that if he can't trust himself, I should trust his judgement on the issue. I can almost see the kind of man he's trying to be though—and so can Belle. Maybe that's why she's bringing all this up now.

"Adam's idea seems perfectly reasonable to me," I can't quite understand the skeptical look she's giving me. "It's not like you're in any kind of rush."

Now that blush is very out of character for her. I shoot her a pointed look, and for some reason she can't meet my eyes. She's smarter than— _they_ are _both_ smarter than… and I'm not entirely sure I want to know, despite what I'm sure she's about to tell me. There had better be a damn good reason young woman.

"No…" I don't even try to keep the disbelief from my voice.

Belle just nods.

"When?"

"A couple of months ago. You remember I talked about actually fighting with Adam?"

"I do. It scared me when you said that."

"Well, we might have had a drink or two to calm down afterwards, and then maybe some slightly angry and very—anyway, something happened, and well… here we are."

"I thought both you and him were using contra—"

Belle shakes her head sadly. "I can't. Messes me up terribly. I had an implant, and it was due to be renewed, but maybe I missed the date, or my body flushed the drugs sooner or something. So yes, we did take precautions. I guess just not enough of them."

I won't say that if they're both so afraid there are certain options. I don't want to influence her. But they're also both so young. _And foolish_. And for some reason I think of Elsa and me, fooling around during a lazy afternoon. Just doing stupid things. It was a good time. A very good time. I think we might have dragged a mattress out of the attic and used it to bounce off the stairs. Whoever said you couldn't look dignified while you were having fun was completely on point. I also a remember a flying tackle from one of us pinning me to the mattress. I didn't care.

"Anna?" Belle waves a hand in front of me.

"Huh?"

"You just zoned out for a minute there."

"Oh, sorry. So…" I clasp my hands together and look at Belle. This is serious, so I have to be serious. "Do you want to keep it?"

"I…" I can see the mix of confusion, concern, fear and determination behind her eyes. "I don't know."

"And that's what scares you, right?"

She nods slowly. "I haven't even told my dad yet." _You what?!_

"How long _have_ you known?" If it's only been a week or so, then I'm not going to be that surprised. Also, given how confusing everything must be for her right now, well, yeah. I'm not gonna hold this against her either way—although she really should let Maurice know, soon.

"A couple of weeks." She smiles, just a little. "I really wanted to talk to you first."

"You could have asked to talk last week…"

"You blew me off." She's frowning at me, like I should remember and—oh crap, I did blow her off. Me and Kristoff were just so smashed from that week of rebuilding the wirer that we couldn't do anything. I can feel my hands balling into fists. I am supposed to be _there_ for my friends, even when I can't. I have to take a breath.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay, we're talking now. I'm glad I could get all this off my chest." Of course, now I have to worry about all of it too. And I know I will. I also can't tell anyone and—ugh, I hate keeping secrets, especially from Kristoff and actually, no, I can trust him. After all, why else would I—crap, if Belle's looking at me right now I'm going to have some explaining to do. I look down, almost talking into the wind as I reply.

"Anytime, Belle."

"Do you think I should tell Adam?" Pensive again. She's like that a lot today. With good reason, too. I, on the other hand, am still processing that she is, in fact, pregnant.

"I think he has a right to know. If you keep it, it's not just your child, it's his too." Fathers have rights, just as much as mothers.

"And if I don't?" I didn't want to hear that. Not right now. Not even when I dropped that hint earlier. If she went through with that—even though it might be the best option—it would still hurt them both. I can see a hundred ways it could start to slowly destroy them, and I don't want that.

"It's your choice." I leave that to hang for a moment. "But if you don't tell him, and he finds out later… I couldn't stand it if either of you got hurt."

"I'm still afraid, but I know he wouldn't hurt me." I hate how easy it is to hear the tremor in her voice. I know it all too well.

"That's not what I meant," I take her hand and we sit on a convenient bench. Wet. "Alright, bad idea. Anyway, it's okay to be afraid. Just don't let it control you—don't suffer like I did."

"Like you did?" Well, her interest is definitely piqued. She shuffles sideways, trying to find a spot to sit that is less wet.

I'm sure I've told her about Hans, and my past. Right? It'll only take one word to find out. I put as much venom into the name as I can. "Hans."

"Hans?" Damn. Another thing I didn't want to do. But I have to. I have a feeling today is going to be very much about these choices.

I tell her, at least in brief, about Hans, and what he did. Turns out I've still got a lot of anger in me about that. Resentment too. Mostly at myself. Hindsight is 20/20, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating. I hope she can take something useful away from this. All I have right now is a burning desire to hit something, and a deep-seated need to be held. The scars have faded, sure, but if keep picking at them they'll bleed again. I could use a bit more wisdom sometimes, I think.

…don't even say it.

"Not a story you like telling." Look, you, at least _she_ has some tact. I shift slightly on the bench, and I'm almost hugging myself before I feel an arm around my shoulders and hair against my cheek. I turn to see Belle wearing a gentle smile. "I'm sorry."

"It's in the past," and yes, I know there are still aspects of it I have yet to deal with properly. But today is not about me. "So, I think your problems—I mean, not that it's a problem, it's a situation and—okay, anyway, either way, this is… well… it's a big step for you. Both of you. Just… don't rush. Don't rush, take your time. And if you want to talk, just call me."

"I did," and she gives me a pointed look. It wilts after a second and she breaks out laughing.

"What?"

"A bad joke. I'm sorry." She hugs me again. "You're a good friend."

"Don't be, you've heard some of mine. I've been a connoisseur of terrible jokes for a long time," I take a second to catch my breath, standing, beckoning for Belle to follow. "And thank you. By the way, appetite kicked in yet?"

She looks at me, very confused.

"Pregnancy joke. Want to come over for lunch?"

"Oh, yes, please." There's a devious twinkle in her eye. "I have to steal more of your husband's recipes."

"Be my guest."

* * *

I'm just lying on the couch now that Belle's gone, trying to figure out how exactly I feel about this. About her being pregnant. About Adam's possible reactions. About me being her confidante. About whether or not I really will tell Kristoff. About how much I _hate_ keeping secrets. I know sometimes people have to, but still, I swear, half the world's problems could be solved if the idiots would just be _honest_ with each other. And I've also been called out for that opinion more than once, too. Screw it, it's the truth, and I stand by it.

Elsa was always better at keeping secrets. I don't really mean that in a bad way, she just… kept them. I could tell her things, and they never spread. Sometimes, the things she told me, Kristoff, her doctors, hospital staff… they learned of them. Sometimes it helped them to know. And sometimes it hurt her—and me. But she accepted that, because I was always doing it for the right reasons; never to hurt her; never to start stupid rumours. But there were some secrets I never told. Some I knew were sacrosanct, without ever needing to be told. Well, maybe one or two that I didn't think were terribly important and… damn, I'm rambling.

I have to tell Kristoff. Just as I'm getting up off the couch my phone rings, and of course I manage to fumble it beneath the couch. Who the hell would be calling me anyway, I mean, Belle's not long gone, Kristoff's _here_ , and Joan doesn't have her phone this weekend. I manage to hit the answer button as I retrieve the thing from under the couch. The slightly pudgy face on the screen is a dead giveaway, along with that nose.

"Lefou?" Wait, movement in the background… "Christian! Hi!"

"Yes, Anna, he heard you."

Christian leans down and kisses Lefou on the cheek. "I'll let you two talk now. So long, darling." The way he sashayed off when he said that, I'm not sure which one of us he meant.

"He loves the act."

"I know—but he does it so well." Christian is so camp sometimes. I mean, I think he puts it on even thicker for me, but it's pretty thick as it is. Thing is, it makes him better, and a lot more fun to be around. Plus, he teases me about being on the impossible line between butch and femme. Well, just because I have muscles and like to wear men's clothes sometimes doesn't mean I can't be elegant and refined too.

"Doesn't he?" I like Lefou's smile. I like seeing him happy. I may have zoned out a little.

"Sorry, what?"

"I was agreeing with you, Anna."

"Oh, okay. So, what's this call about?"

"You really are terrible with dates, you know that, right?"

"I'll have you know only half of my dates ended in flaming disaster. And only one literally."

"Very funny. Remembrance day."

"That's nearly a fortnight away."

"Yes, so now you have no excuse for not being organised."

"I'm sure I can make one up. Failing that, I should be on time this year."

"Excellent. I'll talk to you again closer to the time."


	30. Heartbeats

 

Well, that was a surprisingly long day. We were at Al's—the carpet factory—and we were just getting a bunch of winders and spinners ready to move. I mean, it's simple enough to dismount these things, it's more that there's six of them, and we have to make sure all the main fixtures are reusable. To that end we left a pallet stacked with air lines, conduit, and lengths of cable tray in the corner of the beaming room where we were working.

"So, think she's recovered yet?" Kristoff's voice snaps me back to the present. He's talking about Joan of course, who probably didn't even make it to school today. I know she didn't fight, but it still seems like the weekend took a fair bit out of her.

"We'll see when we get home. I don't have a huge number of texts from her. You?"

"Work, work, you, Bulda, work. Nope." Kristoff flips his phone shut as he climbs into the van, ramping up the motor.

With the tools stowed and the doors closed I bang twice on the side panel of the van. It's a habit I picked up so long ago I can't even remember when I started. My signal that we're all good to go. I swing myself up into the passenger seat, and then we're off. Traffic is heavy this afternoon, probably from school—oh, that's right, Al's place normally starts shifts an hour earlier than usual, so of course we've ended an hour early. Right in the middle of the after-school rush.

Kristoff lets out a frustrated sigh, and then we just sit and wait in the crawl. It gives me time to think; to remember. About other times I got home early, or Elsa got home late. One in particular sticks in my mind, but it's not time for that one yet. Also, I don't think Joan really wants to hear about the beginning of her mothers' sex lives. But there's another one too, a quieter one; one I think she'll like if she's tired. Kristoff navigates around a broken down semi-trailer—so that's really what's holding everything up—and suddenly the road is clear and home seems a lot closer.

Joan's lounging around on the couch when we come in the front door, a small stack of papers next to her, on the floor.

"Oh, hey, you're back early. Tink just dropped off some supposedly important homework."

"I thought I recognised that car down the street." I direct that at no-one. "Anyway, you feeling better?"

"Yeah, I think I was just super tired from everything. I got tired just _watching_ some of those fights; they were _intense_."

"Well, maybe next year you can fight too."

"Totally, mom. So, what's for dinner?" That's our daughter, always asking the important questions.

"Chicken. We've got more than enough time to do a nice roast. You going to help?"

"Sure," and she peels herself off the couch, giving Kristoff a quick hug. "Sorry about last night, dad." I give him a look, he just shrugs. Whatever it was, or is, it's between them.

Dinner is—well, the prep is a lot more fun than usual. A lot more talking. It feels like we're just a normal family—I mean, not that we're not, but sometimes it's just so hectic with work, and school, and life in general, it's just nice to slow down a bit every now and then. Appreciate what it is you have. Even if you can't have everything you want, maybe what you have is better. I remember you telling me that, after… God, what was it we'd done? I wanted something, and thought you'd got it for me as a gift, but it turned out to be something else entirely. You were right, in the long run, it _was_ better. My locket, with that picture of you in it. I still wear it.

Then dinner itself is just… normal. Me and Kristoff clean up, and Joan goes up to her room, ostensibly working on her homework, but more than likely chatting with Tina, or playing games. Then again, she's not grounded anymore, and she'd been doing more than her share recently. Maybe I was just used to doing less myself. I say as much to Kristoff, and he agrees with me. We got comfortable with the situation, that's all.

"Hey feistypants, I can finish up here."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. I think Joan might like a bedtime story." And he winks at me. Subtle, reindeer king.

He's not wrong though, and Joan is actually doing homework, just lying on her bed, scribbling on the paper. She perks up when she sees it's me.

"So, I think you kinda left off where you and Elsa were just enjoying a boring afternoon after mowing the lawns."

I think back. "Yeah… nothing much happened after that for a little while though. Just kind of adjusting to each others schedules as she started dance practice again, and I got more shifts. A week or so later, maybe."

—∞—

It was late, very late. The clock on the wall said eleven, but it felt a lot later. I'd been waiting for Elsa the whole evening almost, and she _still_ wasn't back. I was scared. What of, I don't really know. It was a vague, non-specific kind of fear that I might not see her again, despite how crazy the notion was. We'd both been working odd shifts for the past week and had only really passed each other in the mornings and evenings. There were times she slept in the guest room, simply because she didn't want to wake me. I'd done the same. Kristoff noted once that I was a lot more irritable, but I just brushed it off. I shouldn't have, but I just didn't feel like talking about it.

So I just lay on the couch, not watching some late night movie about a corrupt lawyer that seemed unable to keep it in his pants. I had a bowl of popcorn somewhere on the floor, mostly empty. The movie before was a lot better. I changed the channel, some cartoon about kids with magic powers. The animation actually looked pretty good, so I decided to stick with it for now. Anything to take my mind off the waiting. I didn't have any shifts on Thursday, so I could stay up as long as I wanted.

Of course, it's entirely possible my exhausted body had other ideas, and that would explain the packet of candy—also on the floor—and the cup of coffee sitting on the table. In the dining room. Cold. I sighed. I couldn't remember how long ago I'd made the coffee, but decided I still wanted a hot drink. So, back in the kitchen I poured the coffee down the sink, rinsed the mug, and made a hot chocolate—and discovered we were out of marshmallows. I made a second hot chocolate and left it in the microwave. Either for me, later, or for Elsa, when she finally got home.

Quarter past eleven. I'd only managed to kill fifteen minutes. The cartoon was getting pretty good though, with a big set piece kinda battle. More of a duel, actually, one guy trying to hide his fire powers, versus a guy with rock powers. And that was not a nice ending. The townspeople threw him out for defending them, and after some kind of flashback about his father, he just rides off on some bird thing into the sunset. I changed the channel again. Some documentary about the pyramids.

Eleven thirty. The documentary was really just re-hashing stuff I already knew, and not even in a good way. Elsa still wasn't back. I'd heard a couple of cars, but neither of them were her. I changed the channel again. Re-runs of Firefly. I couldn't say no to that. I wasn't that geeky when it came to sci-fi shows, but Firefly was always something of a guilty pleasure. Plus plenty of good looking guys, and a surprising number of shirtless scenes.

What?

Anyway, it was the episode when the engine breaks down—Out of Gas, I think—and only just starting, with Simon's birthday and the explosion. I curled up with my hot chocolate, preparing for about an hour of good TV. I might even have been able to sit still through all of it too. But nope, couldn't even do that. I had my laptop out, browsing my social networks while I half-watched the show. I really was terrible. It helped kill the time at least.

After midnight. Well after midnight. I could feel my eyes drooping and my concentration flagging. The sugar probably didn't help, because that felt like a righteous crash. My own half-snore woke me up, only seconds later. Tired. Very tired. But I was going to wait up for Elsa, because damn it, I was getting lonely, and we hadn't really, properly talked for almost a week. I was gonna do something about it—and falling asleep would not be that thing. That I didn't know what to talk about was beside the point—I just wanted to talk with her.

Which is why a car driving off woke me up just after one a.m. I blinked slowly, checking the clock. Well, at least I hadn't slept too long. I heard footsteps out the front, and someone fumbling with a key. It was kind of cold out. I managed to lever myself upright as the door opened. Elsa turned as soon as she entered, quietly closing the door behind her. She thought I was already asleep. She stopped on the second step, slowly turning to face me, looking confused.

"Anna?"

I couldn't quite mumble a coherent reply.

"You waited for me?"

I nodded, pulling myself from the couch with quite some effort.

"You're tired. You should sleep."

"I missed you, Elsa. I wanted to talk."

She nodded slowly, walking into the living room. "It is not easy right now, for us, I know." I saw a hard sadness in her eyes, and heard the edge in her voice. It took me several long seconds to process what she thought I wanted to talk about. As in _talk_.

"I don't care if it's hard, I just want to talk to you."

"That's all?" she smiled. I smiled back, sinking onto the couch. She sat next to me, leaning into my shoulder, brushing my hair aside to whisper something else to me. "Only _ever_ talk?"

_Wait… she's_ teasing _me_. "Well, now. I mean later I might… I dunno, 'talk' to, uh, other parts of you…?"

She shook her head slowly, laughing softly in the night. "Anna, why did that sound like a question?"

I could feel an almost incandescent blush as I looked away. "Because… well… I might not know… what to do with another woman…"

"But would it not be more fun to explore, Anniken?"

I blinked, looking back at her. _Did she just…?_

"But probably not tonight; you are very tired. So am I."

"I wanted… I…" I shook my head, not sure what I was trying to say. Not really sure exactly what I wanted either—except her. I just wanted to be close to her.

"You do not have work tomorrow." I shook my head. "Lie down."

And as she spoke she half-rolled against the back of the couch, cradling my head against her chest. I couldn't help the smile I had. she fumbled for the remote, turning the TV right down. I stared up at her and she smiled down at me, pressing my ear to her chest.

"What do you hear?"

I smiled at her, tears in the corner of my eyes. _This_ was exactly what I'd needed. A simple closeness, a reassuring sound. Her heartbeat was a quiet murmur, but in that moment it drowned out every sound. I could feel myself drifting off, and there was nothing I could do. I felt someone gently stroking my hair, lulling me to sleep. I also heard someone complaining about me being heavy, and then deciding to use me as a blanket. I smiled, sleep reaching out to take me and ferry me to my dreams.


	31. Work

Joan's back on her feet and back at school now. I let her take half of Tuesday off—not sure how tired she really was, but she does well enough in class that missing a day here and there isn't going to hurt. My grades, on the other hand… Quiet in the cheap seats, I already know what you'd say. Anyway, along with Joan being back at school, we're back at the workshop, working on some big builds. Naveen's just modified his tank farm, and he wants us to put in some more stairs like the ones we made fifteen odd years ago. Kristoff and Maurice have been busy with drawing those up the past two days, and only now are we starting to cut metal.

I can tell it's going to be a tough day—physically demanding. But I also really like days like this. It's easy to get into the rhythm of it, and once you've started that feeling of progress is addictive. It's why I'm starting with the small cuts first. Well, small for 130 x 10. The grinding disc eats into the steel as I push the grinder gently forwards. Precision is important. Especially when doing complex angles like these support plates. Some of them we're getting laser cut, but for the most part it's just angle grinders and skill. And by morning tea the only thing we can smell in the workshop is the tang of ozone from cut steel.

So of course it's going to rain so we can't break outside. Instead we just sit or lean against the pillars next to the main roller door. Maurice is talking about Belle, how she came to him for advice on Tuesday. He doesn't ask if she's talked to anyone else, and I'm grateful for that. I wouldn't have felt right lying to him—or telling him the truth. Either way I would have been betraying someone's trust. He doesn't say what they spoke about though, which I find interesting, and perhaps a little worrying. I decide to text Belle, hoping she's not in class.

I ask if she's told her father—she has—and whether or not Adam knows. Apparently Adam wants to keep it, thinks it might help him get in the right headspace. They're not rushing though, following the advice I gave Belle the other week. She says six weeks before they make the decision. It's a major though, and maybe they shouldn't wait _that_ long. Longer, yes, but maybe not six weeks. That's my opinion though, and before we can get any further Belle texts me that her lecturer has arrived. Well, I guess we'll just have to talk about it at some later date.

The conversation with Belle was more informative than I'd been hoping for. Also, distracting. I finish my food, then head back to the trestles I set up earlier. Now it's time for the big cuts. Marking out again, and marking the kerf line too. It's always easier to keep the disc between lines than contacting one. Kristoff drilled that into me when I started, and it stuck pretty well. Working to a 1 mm tolerance isn't that hard either. I flip my visor down and pull on some earmuffs. Now it's cutting time, and the scream of the grinder is muted by the earmuffs, the stray sparks deflected by my mask and overalls. The cut is easy, but it's also a moment. Almost like when I weld. The disc shears through the last little bit holding the off-cut to my workpiece.

It doesn't fall. I put the trestles around the right way so as to stop any shenanigans like that. Heh—I know you liked that word, the feel of it on your tongue. I remember you used it to describe our adventures in the upstairs hallway, after the fact. Y'know, I think that's the next part I'm telling Joan anyway. But enough reverie, I have to get back to work, the rest of this steel isn't cutting itself. That's pretty much the rest of the day, until afternoon tea. I notice I've gotten a couple of texts while I've been working.

One is from Lefou, reminding me about remembrance day—next Thursday. I set some reminders and give hime a quick reply. It occurs to me that I haven't yet composed a speech for the day. Or, y'know, something nice to say about Gaston. You'd think after all these years I'd be better at it, but nope. I didn't hate Gaston, but he didn't exactly make himself likeable either. Most years I've said nothing, that old adage about when you have nothing nice to say… yeah, still true.

Now the other text, that's from Belle, her classes are finished for the day. She wants to meet again, at the park. It doesn't sound urgent, but I drop a gentle hint about dinner just in case. Hopefully I'm not being too obscure. Given that, to me, today is just some random Thursday, I'm really surprised by the amount of texting I'm doing at work, even if it is on break. Okay, that reply was—oh. It's from Joan.

 _Hey mom, Tink's_  
coming over for a  
sleepover tonight,  
okay?

I hate to say it, but she picked up those manners from me. Not my proudest achievement. I sigh heavily. I really do owe my mother quite an apology. For everything. And you, stop laughing. I'd like to know how you would've dealt with situations like this… hah. Got you. And now I'm imagining you, very, very embarrassed, trying to give our daughter 'the talk'. If it wasn't so wrong I'd have a camera set up to catch every cringe-inducing second you were there. Me, cruel and unusual? Okay, yes, unusual, but you'd have laughed it off eventually, I know. You were _always_ a good sport.

The rest of the day isn't that interesting—more of the same really, and I know it'll be more tomorrow too. Prep everything, then weld up the sub-assemblies for this project. It'll be epic—though I remember showing you our first set, and you were rather indifferent to the whole thing. Well, maybe just rather less excited than me. But I think it was one of your bad days… later in our relationship. I put the thought aside, doing a quick tidy of my bench and the trestles. I'm still trying to figure out what to do about Joan, and Tina. I get the feeling 'sleepover' could have used some quotation marks.

In the van, on the way home, I bring it up with Kristoff. He was apparently the one to give her permission; didn't see any harm in it—okay, so there isn't any harm in it, even if… yeah. So they're young, they both like each other, and have supportive parents. Or at least one supportive parent in Tina's case. Kristoff also has some words of advice for me—or possibly orders.

"No prying. Or spying. Or meddling. "

"I—"

"Just let them be, feistypants."

There's silence between us. The drive home is uneventful, but that gives me time to think. By the time we're pulling up I still don't have any better way to put my vague unease at this most recent development. I just say it.

"I just… is it wrong I worry about them?"

"I do too, sometimes," Kristoff confides to me. "But let them be themselves. I really don't think we have much to worry about. From what I hear, our daughter is almost nothing like you were at that age."

"And the pile of evidence to the contrary?" He knows exactly which example I'm about to use.

"That's why I said almost—sure she's as fiery and short-tempered as you were sometimes, but she's a good kid." He opens the door, looking back to me as he finishes. "So's Tina."

Tina is standing in the living room, and waves nervously as we look over at her. "Uh, hi?"

I just laugh, Kristoff pats me on the back. Only then do we notice Joan's absence, and noise in the kitchen.

"I take it Joan is cooking you dinner?"

"At least, I think she is," Tina gives us a quick smile. I hear cursing in the kitchen. I feel that perhaps my daughter's ambition has once more outweighed her talent in the culinary arts.

Kristoff shakes his head, giving me a quick grin. "I'll save her." Not quite loud enough for Tina to hear.

That leaves me and Tina standing in the living room. This should not feel so weird. Tina frowns, looking at her feet. "Am I imposing?"

I flop into an armchair, beckoning for her to sit. I'm surprised at how little I know of her, given how well Joan knows her. Could that be the purpose of tonight's dinner and sleepover—not the thing I was imagining? Although, knowing my daughter, she's ambitious enough to try both. Brazen enough too. I blink and shake my head. Tina's still talking, quite nervously.

"Umm, miss Bergman?"

"Sorry Tina, zoned out for a moment."

"Huh… Joan said you do that sometimes. Um, anyway, is it actually okay for me to sleep over tonight?"

"Yes, it's fine. You don't have to be so nervous about it."

"Actually, I'm kinda nervous about her cooking," and now she's teasing a short strand of hair by her ear. "The cake was nice and all, but when we uh… fine, when we ran away, not the best chef ever."

"Probably my fault. Or Elsa's," I smile. "Neither of us was a particularly good chef. Passable, maybe. Now Kristoff, _he_ can cook."

"So _that's_ why the kitchen suddenly went quiet."

* * *

Dinner is… interesting. I stand by my earlier comment, though it looks like Kristoff has managed to rescue a couple of things from complete disaster—or at least helped Joan do that herself. It's clear that this dinner is quite important to her. To Tina, too, judging by that glow in her cheeks. Yes, young ladies, you have just confirmed my suspicions. I give the food another look. Fish, with an interesting looking risotto on the side and curious range of vegetables to accompany the meat. I, on the other hand, have chicken tenderloins in front of me, instead of fillet skate—but hey, she _knows_ I dislike fish, and she prepared accordingly. The risotto is actually quite good.

"You may be wondering why I gathered you all here tonight," Joan looks around the table. I shake my head, mouth full. Kristoff smiles. Tina cocks her head and frowns in confusion. "It's because I intend to make Tina a Bergafont—I mean a Bellman—I mean a Burgle… Oh, you know what I mean."

Kristoff holds up a finger to silence me before I can say something stupid.

"And this may come as a something of a shock, but, it's some time off yet. We haven't even finished school, have we, Tink?"

Tina shakes her head. "Well, no, we haven't. But during our little runaway it was kinda nice, just us two. Except Joan's cooking, and me being a terrible blanket, and anyway, we have a plan, and we would like your blessing."

I give Joan a long, searching look. I can see it in her eyes. She's committed. She wants in. But she's also slightly guarded, and I understand why. Kristoff gives me a quick nod of approval from the far end of the table. Tina looks more than a little nervous. Maybe even scared—but not of being with Joan. I think it's us. She's afraid of us saying no. I wonder if she's talked about this with her own mother. I'll try to remember to ask Cara next time I run into her.

"You're both very young," Kristoff gives them stern looks. "And personally, I can't I approve until you're at least a little older, and wiser"—he holds up a hand, still with a fork in it and a piece of fish on that—"but, while I don't approve of it, I think the sentiment is very noble." He takes a bite out of the fish. "Oh, and even if I did approve, it'd be pretty challenging to get it recognised officially anyway."

"Oh," Joan sounds more than a little deflated. "I guess… well, that kinda does make sense." Then she and Tina look at me.

"Look, the idea would be great—if the two of you were, say, nineteen or twenty—"

"Mom!"

"—but I won't say you two can't _act_ that way while you're under this roof. Just be careful, okay"—and I give Joan a pointed look, because this is _not_ what she thinks—"because hearts are fragile things, and putting one back together is no easy task."

And for some reason Tina giggles at that. She shares a look with Joan. "You said she'd say about—" Joan shushes her, but it's too late. Far, far too late.

"We were both teenagers once," I give the girls a look, indicating both me and Kristoff. "It's not like we can't figure it out."

They stare at us, cheeks glowing. I lean in close to Joan, whispering in her ear.

"Just don't do anything you'd be embarrassed to tell us in the morning, okay?" I feel there's one more thing I should add. "Also, sorry if I kinda killed the mood for later."

"You are not sorry." It's biting, but there's no malice in it. Also, she's right. I'm not sorry. Looking back on my own youth, I find the reflection hilarious. Hopefully she will too, someday. For now, however, she just scowls at me and stabs her fish rather harder than necessary. It's going to be fun tonight. For who, well… that would be telling.


	32. Bouncing

 

I think it's a great pity I had to be up early for work today. I really wanted to give my daughter a good ribbing for what we all know happened last night. She thinks we were loud that morning… well, we can talk now at least. She's sitting at the far end of the couch, just barely managing to keep her blush under control. I'm not saying anything. She's waiting for me to make a move, and the tension is electric. I really shouldn't be such a tease.

"Now, I don't know who it was, but might I recommend a pillow to scream into next time?"

"I… well… she's just… mom, I can't talk about this, okay?"

"I did say not to do anything you'd be embarrassed to tell me."

"I… well… it's private, right?"

"Yes, it is, so you don't have to tell me. I'm not asking for details, but it's going to be pretty hard to deny what happened." I give her a devious wink, then I soften my tone. "But you remember when we had the talk?"

"Umm… do I have to?"

"Look, that was awkward for both of us, okay," I look away, out the window. It's raining. "I'd only recently discovered you liked girls, so that kinda torpedoed what I _had_ planned to say."

"You had a _plan?_ " Okay, ow. And why are you agreeing with her? No fair teaming up against me.

"Yes, I _had_ a plan. _Had_."

"Okay, so is there a point to this, mom?" I wish she didn't sound so defensive—well, my mild disapproval and teasing are probably not helping matters.

"There is. You remember the point I tried to make about emotional maturity in relationships."

"Yeah…" she's doing the finger thing again. Her eyes light up as she makes the connection. "Oh, you think maybe me or Tink just wasn't ready for it—because I gotta tell you, we didn't rush anything."

"Not that I asked for details," I roll my eyes. "But that's not what I meant—well, not completely, because I still think you've both got some growing up to do. Look, I'm sure you both respected the boundaries, and had fun, yes, but I'm not talking about the act itself. I think you might be rushing the relationship as a whole. Now, you may not believe this, but I was once a horny teenager too—hey, don't give me that look, you two were so _obvious_ at dinner last night—and I get the feeling simple teenage lust had as much to do with your decision yesterday as your desire to show your commitment to each other."

Joan is suddenly quietly, but behind her eyes I can see her mind working furiously, trying to see this from other angles—even mine. And while she's silent, my mind wanders. My daughter is no longer a virgin. To her, at this point, it probably feels great. I know my first time did. Now for some reason that vague unease from yesterday is back. I can't quite put it into words, but I _know_ it's important. I know it has something to do with her relationship with Tina moving that much further. Something to do with her having knowledge that I cannot be privy to. That it might be the first step in… what…? I can feel a tear rolling down my cheek. I feel it as she wipes it away, concern heavy in her voice.

"Mom, are you okay?"

I nod slowly, and give her a wry smile. "You're growing up, and I can only tease you about it."

"You got that right, super-mom." Oh, there's the sass. It feels good.

"Hey, I think I resemble that remark," I have to respond in kind. She laughs. "But I shouldn't be teasing you so much or trying to bawl you out. I should be supporting you. So, new plan—if you're not too embarrassed to ask your mom for advice; and you can ask literally anything here, I'll try not to judge: Is there anything you'd like to know?"

"Well…" her blush would probably be visible from orbit at this point. "It felt kinda slow—like, not like we had to rush, but, well, it took a lot longer than we thought."

I have to stop myself from saying the first thing that comes to mind. She's only fifteen after all, and would not appreciate the joke. I have to just shake me head. "Don't worry, that's normal—at least, most of the time. Think about how many times you've done it versus how many times Tina's done it to you."

"Oh, um… yeah, that _does_ make sense," she giggles, and now she seems a lot less embarrassed. Okay, so I still think she might be a bit young, but I'm hoping this means she'll be open and honest in the future. She's also very quiet now—waiting. Which means I wasn't paying attention to something. Oops. She prods me with an elbow. "Kissing."

"Well, it's up to you, really. Some people get really into it, and some people like to concentrate on other things."

"I actually meant kissing other things."

"Done right, kissing almost anywhere can be—"

"Okay, I get the idea," she's screwing up her face as she looks at me. Clearly I've struck a nerve. "I still think it's weird. And it tickled, but I guess that's normal. And, umm, teeth?"

Now I'm forever going to wonder about several things. Serves me right for zoning out. I answer her half-question. "If either of you is going to use your teeth, be gentle, and be careful."

Suddenly her blush is back. I promised Kristoff I wouldn't pry—but if she volunteers ay information, I _will_ respond. Hopefully in an appropriate manner. Sadly, she doesn't elaborate. Instead, she lapses into thoughtful silence. I can tell something is bugging her, but I don't want to pry—Okay, fine, I do want to, but I've been told not to. Maybe just a gentle nudge.

"Anything else?" It's innocent enough.

"Well, there is one thing…" I hold my tongue. She's not quite sure whether to tell me. Maybe she thinks I'll tease her about it? Yes, I know I'm terrible sometimes.

The silence continues.

"Is it normal to fall asleep like right afterwards," she's looking at me, almost hopelessly confused. Surely we covered this somewhere. "'cause Tink says I crashed pretty hard."

Ah, well, of course, with only two points of reference you don't know which one is right. No baseline. I pat her on the shoulder. "You get that from Elsa. Okay, sure she had stamina dur—"

"Mom!"

"Okay, fine. That's probably enough parental embarrassment for one day anyway."

"You and dad are gonna make me regret telling you about the sleepover, aren't you?" I'll be honest here, it will almost entirely be me—but I will at least _try_ to restrain myself.

"I could always tell you about me and Elsa's first time and you could tea—" Well, okay then. But I kind of expected that. "Okay, but suffice to say it gave her ammo against me for months to come. Hey, ow—I didn't mean it like that; get your mind out of the gutter."

"You started it." Yup, I did. Another wry smile. Well, I can try and defuse it.

"Maybe we should just end that discussion. You're happy, Tina's happy; I'm not _really_ happy, but I can live with it, and your dad would never even try to have this kind of discussion with you."

"Yeah," Joan laughs with me. "So, what now?"

"Now I tell you some more about Elsa."

—∞—

Elsa was out, dance rehearsal on Friday morning. I slept in, having swapped my regular shift for Saturday, because Kristoff needed help with an install on the weekend. Audrey got the short straw of working Sunday. Work concerns were pretty far from my mind that morning. In fact, I had decided to clean the attic some more, and the spare room. And my room—especially my room—which once again looked like a bomb had been set off in a wardrobe. Seeing how organised Elsa was actually made me a little jealous. She was a practical person. I was lazy, and absent minded.

The attic, at least, was mostly organised thanks to our efforts the other day. It didn't take much to drag a few old boxes into the living room. It wasn't long until lunch—I'd slept in a little later than I planned—but I decided I'd rather keep working. It was about time to change my bed to. Elsa would have asked what I was going to change it into. I missed her laugh, I'd heard it so infrequently the past two weeks. Her smile too. The other night—Tuesday? Wednesday?—when I'd fallen asleep to her heartbeat had helped, but I still didn't feel as balanced as I used to. It was an almost physical need to have her around.

On a whim, I took my mattress right out, giving it a good beating to get the dust out of it. I let it fall quite deliberately down the stairs. Well, that gave me an idea—I went back to my room and fetched a pair of my heavy work socks and then rolled up the rug in the upstairs hallway. It was just… fun… skating down the hallway to bounce off the mattress. Maybe not particularly safe—I knew my butt was gonna bruise after that last one—but fun. I sighed, shouldering past my mattress to head downstairs and retrieve the vacuum cleaner.

I glanced at the clock in the living room as I went past—well past lunchtime. I decided I'd eat first, then clean. I would also make something for Elsa; I knew she couldn't be far away. I looked down, standing at the bench. It felt like iron bands were crushing my chest. I just stood there, my mind racing, feeling as if I'd been stabbed again. I was down on all fours, breathing heavily. I remembered lying there, my shirt all sticky with blood, my nose broken, and my limbs feeling like lead weights. I was scared. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself.

It took a few minutes, but I was able to stand, looking down at the red tide marks on the floor. I suddenly hated them with a vengeance, but all that really told me was that I hadn't properly come to terms with what I'd done—or what had been done to me. Later, I knew, I would have to tell Elsa. She might chew me out for not dealing with it sooner, but she would be supportive. In a lot of ways she was much stronger than me. Or maybe just more stubborn. But I liked to think it was strength.

Lunch was eventually made—toasted sandwiches with bacon—and TV was watched, but Elsa hadn't come home by the time I was finished. With an offhand shrug I started to clean up, then grabbed the vacuum and headed back upstairs. The hallway was easy. My room… well, that still needed more tidying. At least the laundry had been separated into piles for clean and dirty. Thinking of dirty laundry I made my way into Elsa's room. She actually had her own laundry basket. Then I saw my mattress out of the corner of my eye, all lonely on the landing. Surely she'd forgive for me one little mess, right?

Of course it didn't go to plan. I hit my mattress, my feet hit the edge of hers—on the first step—and then I was in the middle of a mattress sandwich. It was still fun. I tried again, skating down the hall in my socks, tumbling down her mattress and into mine. So my mattress squashed me that time. I couldn't help the laughter. I knew exactly how I would ambush my girlfriend when she finally got home. It would be her just desserts for being so late.

Propping the mattresses back up, I returned to my room. Vacuuming didn't take long, and a quick dust—or swiping my hands across the tops of drawers and cupboards—followed by an attempt to sort clean laundry into appropriate drawers saw half an hour disappear. It also let me hear a car—or more likely a taxi—pull up out front. I couldn't see the front path from my room, so I just waited for the telltale metallic scratching of the key in the lock. That I only heard it because I was leaning over the top railing of the stairs is beside the point.

"Anna?" I shuffled quickly to the far end of the hallway. "Anna, are you home?"

"Upstairs!" And with that I was off, hoping I had my timing right.

"Why is there a mattr—whoa—oof." Maybe winding her wasn't the right idea. We tumbled down her mattress, and caromed off mine, which began to flex disconcertingly. I turned my head aside, tangling our hair, and then it hit us. Whump—sprong. I could see the anger in her eyes, and the confusion. It figured that ambushing her right after she walked in the door was not the greatest of my ideas. I prised the mattresses apart, setting mine against the wall again.

"Sorry. But I just… it was fun, bouncing off everything."

I guess she saw the smile I was trying to hide. "Why is it your idea of fun always involves hitting something; or the risk of great personal harm?"

"Adrenaline junkie?" I tried. "You've seen my bike, after all."

"No, it is more than that. You are not like this with everyone else."

"Who is this everyone else?" I looked around, half-mocking her. "Should I meet her?"

"Anna."

"Are you telling me you didn't like bouncing off the padded walls?"

Now watching her expression there was fun. Intriguing. With me, at least, she was a lot more open. I could see confusion, exasperation, hope, and focus. I could also see the devious smile forming at the corner of her lips. Not a good sign. Her next question caught me off guard.

"Hey, Anna, how much do you think I weigh?"

And before I could answer she'd given my mattress a good whack. I spat out a mouthful of dust. Then I learned the hard way that she weighed more than I thought—using both mattresses to climb the stairs, with me still in them. When she reached her door I'd finally managed to worm my way out from between them.

"Okay, so I _probably_ deserved that."

"No probably about it," she closed the door on me. "Just let me change first."

She came back out a few minutes later wearing shorts and an old t-shirt. She ran straight at me and I barely had time to duck, sending her spilling past me and into the mattress against the wall. Upside down. She laughed, pushing herself off with a half-flip.

"Well played, Anniken."

"Come on," I climbed the mattress to the top of the stairs with her. She had good socks on, so when I gave her a gentle shove on the backside she slid somewhat gracefully down the hall. I bounced off a wall, then zipped to the far end like a skier. I could see she was dubious. I gave her a wide smile, then pulled her into a stumbling, sliding half-sprint, hair trailing out behind her in her customary braid. I hit the edge of the top step and stumbled, and still holding on, she fell with me. On top of me, actually. Right before we bounced off the other mattress. I heard her squeal in delight as it smacked down on top of us.

She'd probably never say it, but this was what she needed. Something where she could just be stupid, and free, and not have to care about anything. I watched as she did a handspring between the mattresses, flicking herself to the top of the stairs. From where I was lying I could see up her shirt as she flipped—and also that she wasn't wearing a bra. I liked what I saw.

"Less ogling, more bouncing." I think my blush gave it away.

Then we were just bouncing around the hall, spinning and skating in our socks. It was easier than dancing. Occasionally we would 'accidentally' stumble down the stairs, or push each other over, or contrive some other way to get ourselves sandwiched by the mattresses. Still stuck between the mattresses, panting with exertion, there was a sudden silence. I leaned in for a kiss. Elsa sneezed, blasting our flyaway hair all over the place. I couldn't help the laughter.

It was a good afternoon. In the end, I didn't tell her about my flashback. Not until later. We were just having too much fun.


	33. Coping

It's late on Friday night, and me and Kristoff have a clear schedule this weeke—oh, wait, I'm supposed to be meeting Belle on Sunday. Good thing I set lots of reminders. Okay, so our weekend is mostly free. Our Friday night is definitely free, Joan's already in bed—well, in her room, but I have my doubts about her actually being asleep yet. Me and Kristoff are still on the couch, cuddling under a light blanket. The rain from earlier has only been getting heavier. There's a blinding flash, and thunder rumbles through the house. I know the Reindeer King's grinning at me as I duck under the blanket.

What?

Oh, well, it's mostly an act these days. Mostly. I remember some of the big thunderstorms you helped me weather, after convincing me to appreciate rain. But right now, in this rain, I'm hiding under a blanket, pressing against my husband in ways I know he deeply appreciates. That's why his hand is going for the waistband of my jeans. I whisper something about Joan interrupting, he counters with everything important being upstairs. Plus, neither of us can even _remember_ the last time we used the couch.

The rain beats a tattoo against the windows, and my racing heart matches my shallow breaths. We try not to make too much noise, and we try to stay under the blanket. It's awkward, but fun, and afterwards we doze on the couch for a while. After midnight, and the rain is still going, thunder rumbling in the distance. It's a good storm, and drowns out all the noise as I sneak into the kitchen and grab a drink. Coming back, I pull my jeans up properly, and then tuck Kristoff into the couch. He'll come up later, I'm fairly sure.

Upstairs, and I'm just lying in bed, listening to the rain—to the storm. I can almost imagine you with me, calming me through it. Then, well, we were rather less calm. Feverish, almost. It wasn't an ultimatum you gave me, but I remember a warning about wearing a certain dress again if I wanted it to survive. Or maybe it was a chemise? It was so long ago, and some of it has faded, while other things feel like they happened just yesterday. I roll onto my side, letting the rain lull me to sleep.

When I wake up Kristoff is there beside me, resting, but not asleep. I look over at the clock. Much earlier than usual, but at least the rain has stopped. I frown, and pout. I really didn't want to be up early. Kristoff gives me a quick kiss before rising. He'll find something to do. Probably some invoicing, or other office work that weekend mornings are good for. Joan is probably going to sleep until noon. That actually sounds like a pretty good plan to me. I roll over and go back to sleep.

It's not quite midday when I wake up, but you wouldn't know it by the sun, dark clouds rolling in once more. I get the feeling we're in for another stormy night. I pass Joan on my way to the bathroom, and a critical question pops into my head.

"Did you and Tina… um, the other night… protection?" yawning did not help. Neither did the lack of a brain-mouth filter due to still being sleepy.

It's at this point I'm fairly sure she wishes she could slap me. I really shouldn't have ambushed her with that. Not first thing in the morning.

"Sorry," I look down, trying to untangle some of my bedhead. "It just occurred to m—"

"Yes, we did." That glow in her cheeks is not embarrassment. "We learned in sex ed. We made sure. We're not that naive."

I facepalm. It's not about lack of trust. It's about her thinking that I thought she wasn't smart enough to things right. Now I really do feel like a complete idiot. I raised a brilliant young woman, who knows what she wants, how to get it, and is prepared to face the consequences. So I just undersold my faith in my own parenting—and Kristoff's.

"Mom," she huffs quietly, walking over to me. "I get it."

"Okay," I pat her on the shoulder, looking down the hall. "If you don't need to use it, I'm going to take a shower and see if I can wash this layer of stupid off."

"It's caked on pretty thick; maybe we should just send you through the car wash instead."

"No fair, my brain's still not on."

"Not my fault, mom. Maybe dad can turn it on for you." She turns and gives me a sly wink. "Or maybe something else."

So after a quick morning shower, and only dripping a little on the floor, I pull on my robe and head back to the master bedroom. Jeans and a t-shirt—no, a fancy blouse. A dark forest green, with a faded monogram on the breast pocket. Then it's time to attack the mess that is my hair—even after showering and washing it. Brushing it is relaxing, and I can still remember all the times we brushed each other's hair. It was a little thing, but it meant so much. Especially when you didn't have any hair left to play with. The wig just wasn't the same, but I'm glad you weren't too proud to wear one. Oh, remember the time it got so tangled?

I have to suppress a laugh at that memory, but we did eventually get it worked out. Now, with my own hair mostly tangle free and a loose ponytail, it's time for a late breakfast. Yes, coco-pops. I am grown ass woman, you, I'll have none of that sass. I also have a mug of hot chocolate, because hey, weekend. I make one for Joan as well, because she's just hanging around in the kitchen, looking nervous—and possibly slightly guilty. I hand her the hot chocolate without a word.

"Is it… is it okay if Tink spends the night?"

"Is it okay with _her_ mother?

"Well, Tink said that she said it depends on what you say."

Thanks Cara, way to put all the responsibility back on me. We'll have a talk about that next time we meet for coffee. Of course, I don't tell my daughter any of that, mostly because it was going to be _my_ response.

"Mom…?"

"She doesn't want to have you over for a change?"

"I think they're still looking for a good place—and you still haven't answered."

Yes, she's sharp, that one. "I'm thinking. I know what you're probably going to do, _and_ you know that I disapprove."

"I…" she holds up a hand, beginning to protest until she realises my point—and that I still haven't given her a concrete answer. "I think you're stalling."

I blush a little. "Well, put yourself in my shoes; wouldn't you want time to think it over?"

"Damn it, mom." She takes a sip of her chocolate. "I hate when you're right."

"Okay, put it this way, right now I'm sitting on a maybe, and I can see reasons for yes and for no. And okay, fine, I saw that, maybe I am leaning towards no, but it's not because of—okay, mostly not because of what I said earlier about disapproving of this stuff. This is new for me. My daughter has a sex life, and it makes me uncomfortable because I think she's not quite old enough."

"You think that's uncomfortable?" She gives me a very pointed look. "Try being a teenager and overhearing your parents."

Kristoff chose that moment to come in from the lounge, took one look at us, and said: "Well, this is awkward." and headed right back out. Me and Joan cracked up as he left. I put one hand against the wall to steady myself, careful not to spill my chocolate anywhere. I had a drink of it, stalling once again. I don't know why I can't answer, but I know I'll have to soon. Sleepovers do take _some_ organising, after all. Joan just looks at me, patiently waiting for me to cave.

I set my chocolate down on the table. "Later."

She drains her mug and sets it on the sink. "Later, then—umm, before 4pm?"

It's reasonable. I, on the other hand, am not. "Another dinner date?" I'm a terrible person.

"Dinner and a show; you're the first act." Okay, ouch. She's _good_.

"So, before Tina gets here, how about I tell you some more about Elsa?"

We're both sitting at the table now, and I open with the details of the weekend following me bouncing off the walls.

—∞—

Saturday had left me dog tired, just me and Kristoff working around Naveen's plant. We got a lot done, but we still did overtime to finish up the last job. It's always the last one that goes wrong. That meant that when I got home late Saturday evening, I just didn't have the energy to tell Elsa about my flashback. She seemed worried, preoccupied with something. I could tell by the way she was talking, picking her words so carefully. We eventually crashed out in my room.

When I woke up, somebody was using me as a blanket. That somebody was also a most wonderful pillow, her breasts being appreciably larger and softer than mine. She smiled down at me, stroking my hair. It was a nice moment to wake up to.

"Hello, Anniken," she kissed my forehead. "I think you were having bad dreams. I hope I made them better." Her blush was cute.

I meant to say 'morning, Elsa', but it came out mangled by a massive yawn and sounded more like a whale clearing its throat. She giggled and wrapped her arms around me, trying to pull me higher. I resisted. I was still half asleep, and I was also, admittedly, quite enjoying my new pillow…s.

"You are not a morning person, are you, Anniken?" She smiled down at me.

"What gave it away?" _Is it that I'm still half asleep, using you as a pillow?_

"It is just a feeling," she patted me on the head. "You were like a log."

"I slept like one?"

"No, you are round and heavy." She stuck her tongue out. Pouting for effect, I rolled off her and on to my back. "But it is easier for me to talk in the mornings—you remember?"

I did. I nodded. I wanted to talk too, but didn't know where to start. My hand found hers under the covers, and she pushed her shoulder against mine.

"I will be starting my treatment soon."

"I thought you already were?" I couldn't help blurting it out. All those visits to the hospital—and not just for physio.

"Some minor surgeries. It does not hurt so much anymore. I was also reviewing kinds of treatment; what might work; what might give me more time; what would make me feel worse. It isn't easy."

I gave her hand a tight squeeze. "I hadn't really considered that…" I rested my head against her shoulder. "But I'll be here for you the whole time."

"Even when I am throwing up, and can only eat soup, and won't have any hair?" There was a hint of humour in her voice, but I knew how scared she had to be.

"Even after all that." It was a promise that would hurt both of us. It was still worth it.

"Even knowing the cancer will come back?"

"You're trying to push me away again, Elsa."

"I'm sorry, Anna," she shook her head sadly. "I am scared, and I am afraid of hurting you too."

"Stinker!" I thumped her in the chest with my free hand. "All this time, and you still think I won't stay? You think I don't realise how much this is going to hurt? You think I wo—"

She massaged her chest with her free hand. I probably hit her harder than I thought. Her voice was an icy whisper, and there were tears in her eyes. "Enough."

"No." I pulled her into a tight hug. "I want you to understand. I will be _there_ for you. The whole time. I won't let you do this alone. You won't have to."

"I…" She rested her head on my shoulder, and I felt tears against my cheek. "I'm doing this for you."

I swallowed hard against the sudden lump in my throat. "You… what?"

"You saved me." She kissed me gently before shuffling away. "But you know, and you _still_ want me. How can I not give you that?"

"Stinker…" I wasn't angry. Not this time.

"Every day we have is a gift, yes?"

I nodded.

"And every morning?" That little smirk.

"You. Bitch." Her laughter was the happiest I'd heard in quite some time.

* * *

Later in the day, after breakfast, we were on the couch, Elsa resting her head on my lap. I wanted a way to open up into talking about the flashback, but it just didn't seem to be happening. No easy segue from watching TV or anything, or our inane conversation. I just had to get serious—which, yes, I know can still be a problem.

"Elsa?"

"What is it?"

"I… I had a weird flashback on Friday, before you got home."

"You did not seem troubled, despite bouncing off the padded walls."

"I—Hey!" It took me a moment to recognise the dig for what it was. "It was weird, okay? And kinda scary. That's never happened to me before. It was a bad one—I was in the kitchen, just making us lunch, but I kinda maybe ate yours, and anyway It was just like everything went away, and my chest hurt, and I was lying on the floor again, bleeding out, but I couldn't breathe and I fell over and it was just weird and scary and I don't know what to do. I just… don't."

Elsa traced her fingers down my cheek. "I can be here for you, but more than that, I do not know how to help."

"I…" I know I shouldn't have expected more. After all, she wasn't a psych major. "I wish you did. It's hard to talk about."

"Then talk to me, pretend it is practice; that I'm someone else today."

I itched absently at my scar through my shirt. She caught my hand and held it gently in hers. I took a deep breath before beginning.

"I was just standing in the kitchen, making our lunch. Maybe I was holding a knife, I don't know. Then I saw that stain on the wood, and something in me just—broke? snapped? I don't know, something like that—and then my chest was so sore. I felt the knife going in again. I was on the floor, and bleeding out, but not; I was outside my body. I was… fuck, I was terrified, Elsa. I was afraid I'd lose everything. And then it just stops… I'm down on all fours, hyperventilating at the floor. I was so weak I couldn't stand up, not for a couple of minutes. It was… I… I don't know. It scared me, and I don't like it."

"I am not one-hundred percent, but it sounds like PTSD."

"PTSD? From getting stabbed?" I was incredulous—at that time I thought PTSD was something that only happened to soldiers in combat.

Elsa pulled me down next to her, our eyes level. Her voice was soft; concerned and loving. "Anniken, you nearly _died_. If that is not a traumatic event, I don't know what is."

"I guess it makes sense?" It came out as more of a question than I intended.

"It is okay not to understand. That is the first step to wisdom."

That kind of came out of nowhere. "Um, what?"

"If you do not understand something, what is the first thing you do?"

"I look it—oh, I get it. Thank you." And before she could stop me, I had my phone out, looking up articles on PTSD. Specifically, treatment for it. Medication—most places claimed some benefit; Therapy—considered good by more places, and used with medication in some places. Or I could just leave it be, and figure it out later. I saw Elsa's frown and knew she must have been following my train of thought—or watching me surf on my phone.

"Sooner is better than later, Anna."

"But if I… and then you…"

"What?" she gave me a hard stare. "You think being at therapy will stop you being able to help me?"

"Maybe."

Elsa leaned sideways, her braid falling from her shoulder, her lips set in a firm line. She kissed me quickly, then sat back. "No. Nothing will stop you helping me. Even getting yourself stabbed didn't."

A smart-ass comeback died on my lips. She was right. So right. Who was I to argue?

—∞—

So Joan's sitting across from me at the table, smiling. "So, did you actually get the therapy?"

A little blunt there, I have to admit. Probably my fault. "Eventually. It helped—but the flashbacks only happened a handful of times. I'm still not even sure if I needed that extra help."

"But it didn't hurt."

"Well, no. And I did bring Elsa one time. We actually learned a lot."

"Later in the story, right?"

"Yup."

"And what about later today, with Tink?"

"I'm sorry baby, but no. Not tonight."

"Okay…" at least she's not storming off in a huff, or trying to shout me down. I'm actually surprised she's not trying to press me on this. Her next words explain why. "What about tomorrow night then?"

"Persistent, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I think I get it from my mother." I look up to the ceiling. I hope you're watching. This is _your_ fault.


	34. Futures

So, it's Sunday, and I'm meeting Belle in the park. Adam is off talking with Kristoff and Joan, so we have a moment to just talk. We're lucky it's not actually raining, just kind of cold. Cold enough for me to wear a jacket, at least. Belle looks adorable in Adam's old jacket—it's just too big for her. A stiff breeze forces us to shelter behind one of the larger trees.

"I think…" Belle starts quietly, her voice tentative. "I think we're going to keep the baby."

"You've talked this over with Adam, I assume?" She frowns at me. Once again my bluntness is underselling my assumption of people's good intention. It still seems like quite a snap decision, given yesterday we were talking about six weeks to decide in.

"We've talked, Anna. A lot, last night. He thinks it might help—and he's said if he can't control himself he'll move." She seems quite sure, confident in the decision. Still, I can hear the tremor in her voice when she says Adam will move if he needs to. I know what they mean to each other, and how hard such a separation might be.

"He's not moving too far, I hope."

Belle shakes her head. "No, a few blocks maybe, somewhere he can afford a small apartment."

"If he needs help moving, we've got the van."

"Thanks for the offer, but this isn't for a long time yet." She's right. This is something they _can_ put off for a while yet. Maybe third trimester is when they need to start getting serious about any arrangements like she mentioned.

"That's fair enough," I lean around the trunk of the tree, watching for the others. They seem to be playing some form of ball. Rules optional. "So, any other reason you might might have for talking to me alone?"

"Well, yeah, I was going to ask if you had any pregnancy books I could borrow?" I had at least a couple, I think they were one of the last things you bought for me, before…

I blink away a tear, giving her a searching look. "You've heard of the internet, right?"

"Don't be like that, Anna. You _know_ I like books."

I'm staring at the grass, appropriately contrite. I should be more serious. "I do. I think I've got one or two books up in the attic—I'll have a look when we get home."

Then she leans over and pulls me into a tight hug. I hug her back—I remember how hard it was pregnant with Joan, the first few months, even with Kristoff's support. Nothing else needs to be said, and we walk back to the others, Belle pulling Adam aside for a quick whispered discussion. His face betrays nothing, but eventually he nods, smiling at all of us. He gestures for Belle to open up. She still looks nervous, as if she's not quite sure how to say it to everyone.

"Umm…" Why is she looking at me? _Woman, you got yourself into this, you get yourself out of it._

Kristoff is looking at her and Adam rather expectantly. "Well?"

"I'm pregnant." I have to give her points for the accidental deadpan delivery. I smile, waiting for the penny to drop for everyone else.

"Congratulations!" And Kristoff has wrapped her in one of his trademark bear hugs before Adam can even react.

Joan's looking at her, head cocked to one side, obviously still processing. Belle shoots me a guilty look as Kristoff sets her down. I shake my head and smile for her. It's no big deal. At least I don't have to keep it secret anymore. Joan's edging closer, a nervous smile on her lips.

"Can I… can I touch it?"

Belle laughs, leaving Joan looking quite confused. "You do realise you're not going to feel anything, right?"

"Umm… yeah. I totally knew that." Her expression says anything but.

I give her a pointed look. "Young lady, I've seen your health class homework."

"Hey! No fair using homework against me," she looks at the ground, one foot scraping stones from the path. "Plus, it's not like me and Tink have that risk."

I move closer to her, close enough to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She tries to shrug away for a moment, then relents. "With you and Tina it's going to be a deliberate choice that you make—you, or her—but it's just that; a choice." I lower my voice, just for her. "We can talk more about this later, if you want."

She nods once, then lifts my arm from her shoulder and moves closer to Belle. "You know, I think we should invite you over for dinner to celebrate."

Belle has a happy laugh. It sings through the trees. "You know I'm stealing all your father's best recipes, right?"

"Who wouldn't?" And Joan gives her a surprisingly crooked grin. A grin that's almost painful for me to remember.

* * *

Dinner is nothing fancy, but Belle is helping us—me and Kristoff—prep. A fancy chicken and pasta dish with white sauce, and a side of mixed greens. Kristoff is telling Belle how to properly simmer a sauce, while I work around them dicing the chicken. Joan and Adam are in the lounge, and I can hear occasional peals of laughter. Old re-runs of the Simpsons again. I peek out for a moment to see what episode it is—the classic April Fool's prank. It's weird to think a show over fifty years old has aged so well. Anyway, back to work, and after much bustling around and bumping into each other—or me into Kristoff as Belle frowns at us, dinner can be left in Kristoff's capable hands.

"If you've got this, I'll do a quick look around the attic for those books." Kristoff just waves me upstairs. I turn to Belle. "You do realise you'll be helping, right?"

I love the rabbit-in-the-headlights expression she's wearing. "What?"

"The attic's still a bit of a mess, it'll go faster with two people."

"Oh, okay." She doesn't sound convinced, but she follows me up there anyway. It's brighter than it used to be, and it's more organised too. She's not really sure where to start, so I direct her to a pile where I _think_ I left some old books. There are some there, but none of my old pregnancy books. I know she likes books, but these things have to be at least a decade out of date. Okay, I mean, sure, the basics are always gonna be the same, but it's small detail changes that might catch her out. Then again, she's a smart, and old books probably wouldn't be her _only_ source of information. Probably just as well I didn't say that one out loud. Undermining people too often recently.

And there's one book in the pile on my side of the attic. Well, that's something at least. I hand it to her and she starts helping on this side of the attic. Rain starts splashing against the roof, and I have to stop myself looking around wistfully. I remember a time you dragged me up here, just to enjoy the rain itself. Just us, and somehow nothing between us that night. I felt like a naughty kid, but it felt so _good_ , somehow. I still wonder if I'll ever find another person with that same spark you had.

We've only found two books—I think I had three, but I'm not sure anymore—and now the others are shouting at us to come down for dinner. I don't know what it is, but I just feel closer to you up here. Maybe that's your ghost, hiding in the attic all this time. I don't know why it's taken so long for me to see it… or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see, looking through rose coloured glasses. Or maybe—and I really hope this one is true—telling your story really is bringing you back in some small way. I'm remembering more, flashes here and there. I like it.

Dinner is kind of chaos. The best kind. Everyone's talking at once, and even I'm having trouble getting words in edgewise. Frontwise too. I've lost track of the sheer number of things we've been talking about. Currently Kristoff and Adam are talking about baby-proofing supplies, Belle's talking with Joan about her ambitions and her studies—Literature major. I should've guessed, really, given her love of books. Or maybe she told me in the past and I forgot. Either way, it's good hearing her talk with Joan like this.

The conversation turns to Joan's long term plans. She just looks at me helplessly. I give her a look, gentler than usual. "It's your life, baby, you get to decide what you want to do with it."

"Y'know, _some_ direction might be nice, mom."

"Fine, be a doctor then." Her and Belle laugh, and I can hear Kristoff chuckling about something too. "Oh, and if you've got your life together by fifteen, you've done better than me."

"I don't think you're helping, Anna," Belle smiles at me, somehow already in on the joke.

"I'm not." It's the deadpan delivery that gets them both.

"Mom, could you _please_ be serious?" I can see the look Joan's giving me. It's actually a new one—she really wants help with this; or at least _thinks_ she needs help with it.

And then, from the far end of the table: "You could always be an astronaut." Joan just shakes her head and facepalms. Well done, Reindeer King.

"What if we talk about this later?" I give my daughter an appraising look. "Seriously. Cards on the table. Just talk, no commitments."

Joan nods slowly, taking it in. Then she smiles, nodding more enthusiastically. "Totally. We'll do it."

"Was that… parenting?" Belle's looking at me, somewhat bemused.

I smile at her. "Pretty sure it was."

That seems to have been the signal that dinner is over, everyone standing and gathering dishes, moving stuff to the sink. I start rinsing any remaining crap off the dishes and get out the dish racks. The conversation continues behind me, and after a few minutes Belle and Adam say their goodbyes, heading back to their place. From the flush I saw in Belle's cheeks, it's entirely possible they'll be celebrating another way—after all, she's already pregnant. Kristoff passes through and gives me a peck on the cheek, which I return heartily, and then he heads upstairs to start drawing up our next project.

Joan's just standing in the corner of the kitchen, after seeing our guests out. She's not even holding a dish towel. I flick one from the rack at her and she catches it, starting to slowly dry and put away the dishes. I know she wants to talk. I also know she's not quite sure where to start on this one—hence, the silence. I give her an opening.

"Look, at fifteen I had no idea what I wanted to do, just that I was really good at shop class, and that that was kinda weird for a girl."

"Like, really?" I can hear a steady, slow clatter as she puts away the plates. "No plans at all?"

"Well, vague stuff. Get a job. Get married. Maybe have kids. Pretty normal, I'd say—even for kids today, right?"

"Yeah," she agrees absently. "Vague is right. And didn't you say we'd be talking about something else too?"

"I did," I nod absently as I wash the dishes. "But that's probably more of a sit down conversation for later, okay—plus, you really want the possibility of your dad walking in on that one?"

"Umm, well… no, not really. Not that kind of talk."

"Didn't think so. Anyway, you want… well, what do you want?"

There is a tellingly lengthy pause. She makes to say something, then reconsiders it. And again. Then she frowns at me. "That is _not_ fair making me think about it like that."

I give her glance over my shoulder. "I think it's perfectly fair. It's not like I can tell you what you want."

"Couldn't you like… give me some solid direction or something?" She actually sounds a little exasperated. I frown, washing the dishes on autopilot, trying to figure it out. _Did she want me to force her down a set path_?

I shake my head to clear it before I reply. "I didn't want to force you into anything you might resent doing later. Look, I get it, you want some direction, but I'm not sure how to do it. My parents just told me to do something I liked. I guess it worked well enough, because I like this job, and it feels fulfilling to finish a project, and I never minded working with my hands—but you're not me, so I can't just tell you to do this one thing that'll work for you. I can give you plenty of suggestions, but you've got to make the choice."

"But what if choose wrong?" I can see the look in her eyes.

"Then choose again. A great number of people don't get it right first time, or second time. Some people don't even realise until they're forty or fifty."

"Kinda not helping, mom."

I spread my hands equivocally. "I'm just telling you what it's like. I'm not trying to be discouraging."

"O–kay," she draws the word out as long as possible. She really isn't convinced. She's also stopped putting the dishes away. I point back to the cupboards.

"I can help you narrow it down, but I'm not gonna say you have to do _this_." I have a moment to think before she replies. "And what about careers day at school?"

"It's a week," she gives me a long suffering look. "And it's not until next year."

"Well, I'm going to say you need to go to that, and try all the possible things they offer you."

"Wait, _everything?_ "

"Unless there's something you seriously object to going on, yes, all the things."

"Why?"

"You think being an engineer was my first idea for a career path?"

"Umm…" she looks at me guiltily. "Yes?"

"Hah. No," I turn to smile at her, the dishes all washed. "I figured I'd be an auto-mechanic or something, and maybe just weld on the occasional towbar or fender. Or exhaust, maybe. Come home at the end of the day covered in grease after having made someone else's car or bike work again."

"So did you try it?"

"It was boring. Sure, I figured I'd be fairly good at it, but it just wasn't me. And then this other trade school thing pops up the next day, and dad suggested I try it. 'Workshop Engineering' it was called. I mean, I was kinda dubious at first—I had no idea what workshop engineering even was. But the trade school thing was good, and I decided to finish high school a year early to attend the trade school full time. It might have been the best decision I ever made—except maybe having you."

" _Maybe?_ "

I point to the skunk stripe at my right temple and wink. "This is just some of the worry you've caused me over the years."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Well played. But that only kinda helps me," she looks around helplessly after putting the last of the cutlery away. "How do I decide what's me?"

"You figure it out one step at a time. And you ask for help. Nobody ever said you had to do it alone."

"That's… that's actually really… thanks, mom," she reaches out to hug me, and I wrap my arms around her. "We'll talk about the other thing another time."

"We will," I promise her. "Now go, you've done your chores for tonight, and I know you need a shower before school."

She's just about to give me a mutinous look as I point upstairs.

"Go. Get clean. Use that time to think. I do."

"Well, when you're not entertain—"

"Just go, little miss sass."

She pokes her tongue out as she retreats through the door. I get the feeling any choice she makes will be the right one. I'll support her anyway—she's our daughter, after all.


	35. Sunset

I have to say, this Remembrance Day is not turning out to be very memorable. Probably my fault. Sort of. I didn't sleep very well last night. It's been a long time since I've had nightmares like that, and Kristoff spent a good portion of the night calming me down. I can't even remember what they were about, but I kept waking up in a cold sweat after something bad. Something tells me it might be related to that minor PTSD I was telling Joan about. Yeah, so I don't like admitting it, but it's there. And sometimes shit like this happens. Alright, I gotta focus now.

There's honestly not a whole lot of ceremony. We stand around, we say a few words. Some people have speeches that I listen through patiently. I don't have anything to add—at least not out here in the chill wind next to the graves. Everyone pays their respects. Those who have jobs they can't avoid filter out of the cemetery. Myself and a handful of others walk to a cafe just down the road. A cafe we once shared breakfast at, after a midnight ride. It makes today more special, somehow.

I sit next to Lefou, opposite Adam. Belle isn't here. Neither is Christian. Or Kristoff. A couple of the other cops sit with us, and we just eat in silence. Eventually Lefou opens a conversation.

"So, memories on film, or in megabytes?"

"People still use film?" One of the other cops laughs.

"I like pictures," I fish the locket out from beneath my jacket. "It lets me keep her close."

"Digital," one of the others declares, flicking through pictures on his phone. "One picture would never be enough for my brother."

"If you'd seen her…" I shake my head, looking at her picture in my locket. "Nothing could capture a beauty that sublime."

"Or this idiot." And a different guy shows me a clip of him and his partner doing something hilarious in the patrol car as the chief walks past. I almost spit out my drink when the chief leans in through the side window.

"You two got so busted."

"It was worth it. Somehow he made living that life so much easier."

"It's been a long time though."

"It has, but it's not all bad. I remember you told me that."

"That sounds way too wise to be me." I look surreptitiously at my drink. "I have a reputation to uphold."

"Just because you think you're a clown…" Lefou's fixing me with that look. "Doesn't mean you can't also be wise about these things."

"Yeah," I lean back in my seat. "It just took a while longer to learn them."

There's a chorus of agreement around the table. I give them a mockingly hurt look, and they just laugh. The rest of the morning is just all of us telling our stories. I listen, and try to make appropriate comments. I'm supportive, as much as I'm able to be, but this has never really been my greatest strength. I leave somewhere between Lefou and a cute young officer who I shouldn't be thinking about like that. I'll make it to the workshop by lunch. At least, if the traffic's not too heavy. I've got my bike here, and putting on my riding leathers it looks like traffic is starting to build up for the lunch rush from the offices.

I check around me quickly and kick the starter, the bike roaring to life with a satisfying growl. I twist the throttle and pull out into the flow of traffic, following a semi-trailer most of the way to the workshop. Kristoff is outside, leaning against the roller door to greet me.

"You're late."

"Stuck behind a semi most of the way here. Anyway, anything on in town, seemed heavier than usual for lunch."

"Couple of accidents, minor, but blocking the main road," we walk inside. "Had lunch yet?" I nod.

Ten minutes and I'm up to speed on the project. Simple. Custom work platform to go in front of some machinery. I spend a little time to make a cutting list, then get busy on the drop saw. The rest of the day is cutting steel and linishing sharp edges before welding. By closing time I've welded and re-squared the top frame, and set up the legs for welding tomorrow. It's been a good day—nothing especially memorable, but it still feels good. It was like a lot of our days together, really.

* * *

It's a lot later in the day now—or night, whatever. I'm lounging at the foot of Joan's bed, and she's half hanging off it next to me. Upside down. We still haven't had that talk about children, but she's decided she's not ready for it yet. 'Give it a few more years' she says. I'm thinking more of a decade, but just because it happened later for me doesn't mean I should try to influence her. Too much. So instead of a serious talk, I'm talking to her about you. I think it was a week before your treatment was due to start.

"So, I'd just gotten my license back…"

"Hey, you were driving—riding, whatever—to work."

"It was provisional, okay; only to and from work."

"Oh, okay. Keep going."

"I'd just gotten my license back…"

—∞—

I was in the garage, up before noon. I'd actually taken a couple of days' leave, to help Elsa deal with some final physio stuff before really getting back into her dancing. I think she found the fact I was up before noon more incredible. She was still out, and I was tinkering just a little with my bike. And by tinkering I mean I'd just finished installing the pillion seat. I had a grand plan to take her for a ride around town, with her wearing my spare set of leathers and a helmet I'd 'acquired' from another friend. So of course it was raining, the noise deafening against the roof of the garage. By lunch time it had eased off, and I made my way back into the house.

In the kitchen I looked warily at the tide marks from my blood. Today there wasn't even a twinge of fear—even holding the knife to slice some ham. Part of me wondered if it was just a one time thing, and maybe I'd be okay from then on. But from what I'd read, PTSD wasn't exactly a predictable thing. There was a memory—the flash of pain from getting stabbed—but that was it. A couple of minutes later and my ham and cheese was sizzling nicely in the sandwich press. I knew I'd regret having to clean it later with all that extra cheese, but I was mysteriously hungry that day.

I'd also forgotten that tomorrow was Halloween, and that Elsa was looking for parts to finish a costume. That, however, wasn't important until rather later in the day. The most important thing at that point was lunch, and trying not to spill melted cheese all over the city map. I'd already decided that our ride could easily take the better part of two hours, maybe three. If the weather played nice, I would show her the sunset from bald mountain. We wouldn't spend the night there though, because a) I lacked any kind of camping supplies, and b) I quite liked the idea of us poetically riding off into the sunset.

I also made sure my phone was fully charged, just in case. I wasn't sure what I might need it for, but I figured it was probably a good idea anyway. It was about an hour later that Elsa got home, looking a little frazzled, several shopping bags hanging off her arm. I had opened the door for her, and she leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. She also sniffed experimentally at the air, as if there was something she couldn't quite place. She frowned at me.

"Did you have bacon for lunch?"

"Uhh, ham and cheese toasties, actually."

"That will be it. Did you save any?"

I waved my hand noncommittally. "Nope. Didn't know when you'd be back."

She pouted at me.

"But I guess I can make you something if you want to freshen up a bit."

"A BLT would be nice. And we'll see if you've learned how to make tea properly yet."

"Yes, sir." I gave her a mock salute as I turned away, and I heard her laugh as she walked up the stairs. It didn't take long to make the sandwiches, and this time I let the tea brew just a little longer. With a plate in one hand and a mug in the other I felt like a '50's waitress. I actually kind of liked the feeling. I sat next to Elsa as she ate, and told her about my plan for the afternoon. She was a little apprehensive, but seemed interested enough. Looking at the clock, I was surprised by how late it was. I decided it was time for us to get ready.

"Come on, lets suit up." I grabbed her hand and led her to the garage, getting only slightly wet in the persistent rain. The weather still wasn't playing ball.

I started with the pants, nice, thick leathers for winter—it was getting colder after all. As I leant over to grab my jacket I felt playful smack on my backside. I turned around to see a smiling, blushing woman who portrayed the very picture of innocence. Or so she thought. I wasn't sure how I felt about it, but I knew the spirit it was given in, so I just played along, making a grand gesture of very slowly pulling my jacket on before doing a hair-flick as I turned around to face her, jacket undone—along with two buttons on my blouse. Her blush was suddenly much deeper.

"Anniken, must you tease me so?" I could hear the edge of desire and frustration in her voice.

I gave her a playful wink. "You started it."

She sighed, shaking her head in embarrassment, taking the pants I was holding out for her. She pulled them on slowly, over her jeans, making a show of it. I wasn't about to complain. I re-buttoned my blouse and zipped up my jacket, then opened the garage door as Elsa was pulling on the jacket. It was a little tight out front, but that rather worked in her favour, being leather and all. I felt my cheeks burning as she locked eyes with me, knowing _exactly_ what I was thinking.

Letting her hair down, I almost didn't notice how close she'd moved to me. Or maybe I'd moved closer to her. Our lips met in a fiery kiss, and our hands roamed across each others' bodies. There was grabbing, and somebody may have gotten bitten. It took us a minute to compose ourselves. I gave her a searching look as she took in my leather clad figure with a lustful gleam in her eyes.

"I didn't know you were so into leather, miss Frostad."

"It is not just the leather," she smiled brightly. "It is what is inside the leather."

We kissed again, more softly this time, and donned our helmets. The rain outside had eased to a gentle drizzle. I straddled the bike and wheeled it out onto the driveway. I kicked the starter and the bike roared to life, the engine pitched at a satisfying growl while I idled in the driveway. I felt Elsa getting on gingerly behind me, her arms crossing just beneath my breasts. I turned slightly to see her better.

"Don't squeeze too hard, they're the only ones I've got." And with that I turned and took us down the driveway, roaring up the road to the next intersection, following the planned route in my head. I could feel Elsa hanging on for dear life, close to crushing the breath out of me. I decided to take a left, off the planned route, and down some of the older industrial roads. They weren't used as much, so I could let off the throttle a bit, allowing us to talk a little better.

"Are you doing okay back there?"

"It's still a little scary."

"Well, as long as you let me breathe, we'll be fine."

"Oh…" she sounded chagrined. "Was I really squeezing you that hard?"

"Nearly," I admitted. "I've come back here so you can get used to riding for a little while, okay?"

"Thank you." There was a long pause. "Hey, is your work along here?"

I had no idea why she was asking. "No, almost the other side of town, actually."

There was quiet as I spent about five minutes going up and down the road, weaving through a couple of oddball intersections at the abandoned warehouse. I was even tempted to try a little drift in the lot there, but probably not the best idea with a passenger. I also upped our speed along the main back road, the engine roaring between my legs as we shot down the straight. I rode back into town, dodging most of the cross traffic to get us to the larger park on the outskirts of town—the one with the lake—and then back towards the city centre. It was getting late, and by now both of us were getting a little hungry. Thankfully I knew a little out of the way bakery near work, and pulled into a space just outside.

I pulled my helmet off and tried smoothing down my helmet hair to little effect. Elsa did the same, her hair much more manageable than mine. I looked up before going in, finally noticing that the rain had stopped, afternoon sun breaking through the clouds in shining rays. I turned Elsa so she could see it too. She smiled at me and we went in hand in hand. The owner made no comment, and I bought a neenish tart and a small ginger slice, while Elsa bought herself a large chocolate donut, and a small bottle of iced tea.

We sat on the bench outside, enjoying our food. We talked—or tried to—but there was so little to say. I had a sip of her iced tea—really not my thing—and she tried a bite of my neenish tart—finding it far too rich—and after finishing our afternoon snacks we saddled up again, helmets on, and rode out into the work traffic making its way home. Luckily we were going against the flow for the most part, and made good time. Half an hour later and it was open roads to get to bald mountain, and I could really open up the throttle on the bike, roaring along the asphalt, Elsa holding on not quite so tightly any more, finally enjoying the rush as we sped down the road. I was scanning the road ahead carefully for any vehicles, but none were present.

I twisted the throttle even further, and now Elsa was really holding on tight, watching the speedo over my shoulder. She didn't say anything, but I could almost feel her wavering between exhilaration and grave disapproval. It wasn't often I had the freedom to do something like this on an open, empty road. After a few minutes I slowed us to a reasonable speed and pointed ahead, towards the mountain. I knew we could never reach the snow-capped peak, but there was still an amazing overlook several hundred feet up, and that was, for some reason, a less visited tourist spot.

We rode up the switchback roads to the overlook, perhaps a little slower than usual, as I could feel Elsa twisting around behind me, trying to take it all in. Wonder seemed to be overtaking her fear, and as we made it to the overlook she stepped off, her legs not even shaking this time. I slapped her on the back as I took my helmet off, hanging it over the handlebars. I even tried finger-combing my hair, but it didn't go well. Elsa was too busy looking out at Universal City to notice. It was too far to make out individual lights, but there was a glow to the city in the early evening as offices and houses switched on lights as the sun grew low on the horizon. I pointed that out to her too, over the lake.

"It is a pretty sunset," her hand found mine as we stood at the edge of the overlook. "But I think there is more you wanted to show me."

"What, riding like a maniac wasn't enough?" She laughed as I gave her a devilish wink.

"That may be too much, but I know you—I think I know you—by now, miss Anniken."

"Well, I really did want to show you the sunset from up here. It's just a pity about the weather. I mean, there's a couple of cans of coke in the saddlebags, and couple of chocolate bars, but it's nothing special."

"Maybe we can eat somewhere nice on the way back, my shout," Elsa smiled at me. "But I would also enjoy just spending this time with you, while no-one else is around. I think it might be dangerous for you to keep wearing that leather jacket."

I smiled warmly, completely missing the innuendo at first. It finally registered as I was taking out the second can of coke after stuffing the chocolate bars into a pocket. It quite surprised me, actually, that right then and there was where she would admit to wanting it. I felt it when I handed her the can, her fingers lingering far too long against my own. We were both sitting on the crash barrier at the edge of the overlook. There was a little patch of grass just below, but it would be quite a hike to get back up.

"I don't think here is the best place, if what you want is what I think you want."

"And what is it you think I want?"

"Sex." I found it very hard to hold back a laugh at her sudden blush.

"I would," she admitted. "But here is not right. I'm just… well… it's… not for a long time now. Not with anyone who cared about me half as much as you do. But if you start wearing those leathers around the house I cannot be held responsible for what my body does to you."

I swallowed heavily. She was no longer blushing about anything. "It's been a long time for me too, but I've never… not with… not with another woman."

"Well, it will be a learning experience, no?" Her lust was so obvious it was almost painful.

I practically threw the chocolate bar at her. "Here, stick this in something."

"Is that a suggestion or an order?" She moved closer to me as she spoke.

"Maybe I should leave you here so you can cool off overnight." I swung back and forth on the rail, hoping she saw the humour in my words.

"You would not be so cruel." Her arm was around me, and I didn't want to fight it. Or the fact she was not so subtly feeling me up.

"Maybe not," I stood slowly, and headed back to the bike. "But this place is appallingly public—and you did promise me dinner first."

She sighed, standing behind me. "I did. Shall we go and devastate some rich snobs with our leather clad beauty?"

I gave her a withering look. "You don't have a single ounce of shame, do you?"

She smiled brightly. "Not tonight. Not with you. I think you are a bad influence on me."

I got the feeling she was right—and that she liked it.


	36. Parenting

So, it's Saturday afternoon, and once again we're finishing a project at Naveen's plant. Pretty normal really, he just replaced an old cluster packer, and now we're putting in some work platforms and modding the conveyors on the outfeed. I'm also running over the machine in my mind, working out how everything comes together. Okay, maybe I'm a little distracted, but right now I'm just waiting the last few minutes before afternoon tea as we shuffle the platform into place and make sure all the access panels can still be opened easily. It's all good, and we break for afternoon tea.

I'm slightly distracted through this break, because I've said Tina is allowed to sleep over again tonight. I mean, I'm still not happy about it, and sure, maybe Joan could go to Tina's—but she still says they're looking for a better place, and I'm not sure how much longer that will hold up—but they'll get together again eventually, and at least this way I have the illusion of some kind of control. I'm at least smart enough to know that I can't really stop either of them, though I'm fairly sure my daughter will always be the bolder one.

Kristoff has noticed that I've been more distracted than normal today. Now that Audrey's left the cafeteria he finally calls me on it.

"Spill."

"It's the sleepover."

"Really?" And he really does seem quite surprised. "What are you so worried about?"

"I…" I hold up a finger, stalling, trying to think about what's bothering me about all of this. I stall some more… "Honestly?"

"Yes, feistypants, honestly."

"I…" I'm _still_ stalling. Why? What's my real problem with all of this? "I don't _know_."

He gives me a curious look. "Okay. But maybe try and work it out after we pack up, even Audrey noticed."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Oh, what, she's only been around you for eighteen years or so. Pretty sure she's picked a few things up."

"Maybe I should call Cara, ask her what she thinks."

"Cara—oh, right." He gives me a slight frown. "If you think you have to."

I shake my head. I _still_ don't know what it is that's bothering me. I hate how vague it feels, almost like I'm waiting for some kind of disaster. _Like… what?_ I frown, walking slowly back to the cluster packer. It starts hitting me as I round the corner after the pasteuriser. My subconscious has been turning this one around and around all day, because it's something I didn't want to see. My—our—daughter is in love. And lust. And I remember giving a speech about hearts being fragile, and I've been talking about _you_ so much… _I am an_ idiot.

My hand grips the hand rail so tight I might be denting the steel. I let out a deep breath. Another. It's all falling into place. Because it's a high-school romance; because they're young; because I've never seen them fight; because I was there, once; because I suffered so much. I am _afraid_ for her. For my own daughter. Afraid that if she gets hurt as badly as I did, I might not measure up in trying to make things better. I knew full well what I was getting into, but I went there anyway. I don't know what else they might face, but I hope it's never as bad as what we went through.

I still hope they can get all the good though—that made it worth it, despite the pain.

And now, with all this on my mind, I have to get back to work. Yay me.

* * *

Turns out, it wasn't that terrible. We even finished on time. But now me and Kristoff are in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Roasting a chicken, in fact. Dinner will be late, but it will be very filling. It's also good for feeding extra mouths. Joan is suspiciously absent, and the lounge room is suspiciously quiet, so I suspiciously peek through the door. I can hear the Simpsons in the background. I open the door a little further—just enough to see the couch. A hand on my shoulder makes me start in surprise, letting the door swing closed.

"You should just trust them."

"I should, I know." I turn around to face my husband. "I wish I knew why I feel like I shouldn't."

"Because at that age you were sneaking out and doing things without telling _your_ parents?"

"Maybe… I don't know."

"Then turn it around, why should _I_ trust them?"

"Because… umm… well, we raised Joan right. She's honest with us, even about embarrassing stuff sometimes. She works hard. She knows how to defend herself."

"Not doing a great job there, feistypants. You could have just said she has integrity, like her mother. She's blunt, like her father. And she thinks things through more completely than her other mother. She's more than smart enough to know what she's doing; and I think you need to respect that she has more emotional maturity than you did at that age."

I take a deep breath, looking away. He's presented me with a very strong, rational argument. Mine is founded in emotion, and unsettled at that. I don't know what to say.

"Look, Anna, I _know_ you have misgivings about tonight, but we both agreed to let them have this. Better here, under the safety of our roof, than the possible alternatives."

"I know," I know I sound plaintive and whiny. I can't help it at this point. "I just…"

He pulls me into a tight embrace, resting his chin against the crown of my head. "Being a parent really doesn't come with an instruction manual—but perhaps you could talk with Maurice a little more often. I hear his daughter is in some kind of relationship these days…"

And just then my stomach gives a long growl. Perhaps I should be focusing on something other than my misgivings about my daughter's nascent relationship. Something like the roast chicken we've left in the pan. A roast chicken that needs some vegetables with it. I give the door a suspicious look, then turn around and head back to the pantry, fishing out some potatoes to start the rest of dinner.

"Do you want me to take your mind off it, later?" Kristoff gestures upstairs. It's an open invitation.

"I'd like that. If we still have some oil for it." If it goes right, I'll be such a hot, wet mess I won't be able to worry about anything.

We stay in the kitchen as dinner cooks, just talking. I know he's keeping me here deliberately, away from Joan and Tina. Unable to pry. It's infuriating and comforting in equal measure. She's my daughter, and I should know what she's up to. She's responsible, and growing up; she needs some independence. If I can't show her I trust her now, how will she know she can trust me later? Kristoff gets up, casually taking my hand so I have to follow. Sort of. I'm veering towards the door. He lets my hand fall.

"Fine. Tell them dinner's ready."

I stand in the doorway. "Joan, Tina; dinner."

They are not _in_ the lounge room. Or the foyer. I can hear something upstairs as I move into the lounge room. People not even trying to be remotely quiet. I make my way up the stairs, but the noise continues. My hand reaches out to open the door, but something holds me back. This is her room, after all, and do I _really_ want to see her doing that? If she even is doing that. I shake my head and knock firmly, twice.

"Dinner?" That's Joan. She sounds a little out of breath. I also hear a muffled squeak, and a crash. "Oh, come on, you can _not_ be as clumsy as mom."

"Still here. You girls okay?"

"Tink could use some dignity if you have any spare."

"Hey!" The door cracks open, Tina peering up at me. Short as it is, her hair is a right mess. "Umm, hi miss Bergman."

I look her up and down. I am tempted—so tempted—to make an inappropriate comment. I know I'm better than that. "I won't even ask."

She blushes, then looks at me weirdly. "Wait… did you think we… oh, wow. Joan was right."

"I told you."

"Hey, I'm right here."

"Go on mom, open the door—" and then Joan puts on her best voice-of-doom "—if you dare!"

And there she is, wearing her armour, brandishing a short sword and buckler, and I'm not sure she's wearing anything under that armour. I give her a pointed look. She laughs at me.

"She asked," Joan points at Tina with her free hand. "So I was just showing off everything I have—and some moves, of course."

"And because it would sound…"

"Well, that too. The shower incident was too embarrassing. And I mean, okay, afterwards I liked that I could talk to you without you getting angry. And you can't tell me you didn't show off for Elsa sometimes."

"Actually, she did a lot of the showing off." I look around the room. Nothing really seems seriously out of place. "Anyway, you can help set the table; and you, miss Belafont, can help my daughter change back into something presentable."

Joan gives me a look.

"Well, at least change back into regular clothes. I don't think you want to splash gravy on that."

"Wait, what are we having again?"

"Roast chicken. You, set the table; you, help her out of that and into something normal. I'll be in the kitchen serving the food."

I leave. I'll let them have this one. But now I have to plot my revenge. Maybe tonight me and Kristoff can provide some 'entertainment'. Through the walls. _Am I_ _being unfair?_ I'm not really sure, this is new territory for me, after all. I crack an evil grin heading down the stairs. I feel like, at some point, they'll be taking showers. I could leave them—or at least Joan—a helpful—and very adult—'gift'. Okay, yeah, that's totally inappropriate. Maybe just a note saying they can ask for anything they might need.

… _wait, why am I trying to_ encourage _them?_

I still have misgivings, and I still don't really approve. I just know I'm kinda helpless in the face of teenage lust and creativity. Mostly because I remember my own terribly clever plans from that age. More terrible than clever most of the time, but they still worked, and that was the important part. Or maybe my parents just let me _think_ they worked. That's something I wish I could ask them. A whole lot of things, in fact. _Damn it._ Kristoff was right, I need to talk to other parents—like Maurice; or Cara.

Back in the kitchen, and I'm helping Kristoff plate up, Joan and Tina turn up five minutes later, just as I'm finishing the gravy. Joan is eyeing up the plates, and points Tina to the cutlery drawer. The plates have even portions, but different mixes of vegetables. Joan knows whose is whose. Then it's time for us to sit and eat. It's a lot quieter than the last time all these people were around the table, but more often than not I catch significant looks passing between my daughter and her girlfriend—I actually pause mid-chew when my mind acknowledges that. I look to my husband.

Kristoff is wearing a subtle, knowing smile. He winks at me. Joan doesn't see it, but I can see Tina looking between me and him, trying to figure it out. The confusion on her face is endearing. I really can see why Joan likes her so much. I just wish they'd been a little older before they started this—or maybe that I could be a little more mature about it. My thoughts circle once again to the idea that I should _talk_ to people with similar experiences. I give my husband a dark look. I get the feeling he knew something like this would happen. Then again, he has studied human factors, and he's also read a few books on psychology. He kinda had to, to help deal with me—or help me deal with my problems after Elsa died.

Joan's nervous laughter brings me back to earth, and I can see both her and Tina are blushing. Obviously I missed what was said, but I can always make it worse for them. Better too.

"Look, everyone sitting here knows at least one reason Tina is staying over tonight." Yes, we can all see that blush, girls.

"Mom." Joan is staring daggers at me.

"We know," Kristoff keeps his voice low. "I can't see any problems here, though your mother might disagree. We just want you to know that you're safe in this house, whatever it is you decide to do, and if you need to, you can talk to us."

"Uhh, thanks?" Joan's staring at her father. "And if I didn't think this place was safe, would I still do it here?"

"Maybe," I reply for him. "You'd probably be more inclined to hide it, or lie about it—and make all sorts of interesting excuses"

And for some reason Tina is trying very hard not to laugh.

"You should be backing me up here, Tink."

She giggles some more. "And miss this show?"

"You'll pay for that."

"What, are you going to punish me?" And I have _never_ heard Tina this bold. Or this talkative. I have to hide my own laughter at Joan's exasperated cry. I really shouldn't; but I like this side of Tina, proof she can hold her own if she has to. She knows just how to needle Joan, and I have to wonder if maybe someone's been giving her lessons. Given what I overheard before, maybe this is one of Joan's plans that has spectacularly backfired.

"So, anyone up for dessert?" That's Kristoff, defusing the tension. And just as everyone says yes, Tina leans over to whisper something in Joan's ear, making her blush even harder.

"You really are an evil little pixie."

Tina giggles again. "Plus, it'll be easier if your mom likes me," she winks at Joan then turns to me. "You do like me though, right, miss Bergman?"

"Umm…" okay, now I'm the one who's been put on the spot. My hesitation is speaking volumes I'd rather go unheard. I can see Joan's smile turn into concern, and Tina's bright expression beginning to crumple. I hold up my hands, stalling for time. Always more time. I want to say it right so I don't put them off. Or look like a complete idiot.

"Mom?" The concern in Joan's voice is very real. I rest my hands on the table.

"Tina, I do like you…"

"Mom, why do I sense a 'but' in there?"

"Because I can't get the words right, okay?!" I shouldn't snap. I really shouldn't have. I want to tell them I approve of how much they care for each other, and how supportive they are, and how I don't want to see either of them getting hurt, and so many other things, but I just can't think of any simple way to say it. I look helplessly at Kristoff. He gives me a gentle smile and takes over.

"We both like you, miss Belafont. I think you're a good match for Joan. So does Anna—and while she doesn't completely approve of what you plan on doing, she knows she can't stop you forever either. But we're both Joan's parents, and sometimes we get worried about her. What she's doing, or what she isn't. You probably won't understand what it feels like for a long time, but you should know we always have Joan's best interests at heart."

I can see Tina's consternation. "Wait, what about my best interests?"

"To me, at least, Joan is always going to come before you, miss Belafont. I'm her father, she's my daughter, and you're just her girlfriend."

"Dad, she's a lot more than 'just' my girlfriend." The fire in Joan's voice is powerful.

I look between them all. "We know—I know that—but Joan, Tina, try turning it around. If it was Tina's mom, would you really expect her to put you before Tina?"

They look at each other, shaking their heads. Joan speaks up first. "Okay, we get it now. I believe dessert was mentioned?"

Tina nods enthusiastically.

"Go on then," I point them towards the kitchen. "Joan, show her where the dishes are, and grab the ice cream. Me and Kristoff are gonna clear the table."

* * *

Dessert was much quieter, and now I'm sort of dozing on the couch, not really watching anything. The shower's going upstairs, and someone flops on to one of the chairs beside the couch. I don't even look up. It's probably Joan, waiting. I sit up much straighter when I hear Tina's voice.

"Miss Bergman?"

"Tina?"

"Joan was saying the other day that you were going to talk with her about having babies in a relationship—with two girls."

"I was… why?" I have a sneaking suspicion about why you're bringing this up, young lady.

"Well… I just… her scores in health… I don't think…" Tina's voice is just a bit too quiet here. I know what she wants to ask.

"You want to talk with me about having a baby?"

"Yes. I mean, we don't… not right away. Not for a long time… but how will we… 'know'?"

"Know what?"

"When we're ready?"

"You don't know until you're there. Even when I was three months pregnant I didn't _know_. I felt like it was right, but I didn't _know_. And why do you want to know now?"

"Because at some point I know me and Joan are going to have a big, long talk about all this baby stuff, and I want to be as prepared as possible. I've already asked my mom about some stuff, but she doesn't know a lot about the whole girl with another girl world of things. You do, though."

"And does she know you ask your girlfriend's mother what might be considered inappropriate questions?"

"I—what?" That look on her face… glorious.

"Sorry," I shake my head, laughing softly. "You're only fifteen. You really don't need to know this stuff for a while yet. There's literally no chance of it happening by accident, after all. For now you and Joan should just enjoy each other's company. And yes, if she gets hurt you'll have to deal with angry parents—but we won't be like your dad."

I hear a little sigh. "I'm not sure if that's reassuring or terrifying. I mean, with dad, I knew exactly what to expect."

"I didn't mean to scare you with that."

"I don't think you did either, it's just—it's weird. And you… you still don't like that me and Joan are 'intimate'?"

"I don't. But I can't really stop you," I look up at the ceiling—which could do with a clean actually—hearing the water still running in the shower. "At least if you're both here I can pretend I'm in control of things."

Tina stays quiet for a while, not really watching the TV—just like me. After some time Joan comes down dressed in just her towel and tells her to get clean. As they're heading back up the stairs Joan gives me a dark and significant look. I know how she feels about my disapproval of this situation, and maybe it's because I've not told her that secretly—deep down—I really am happy for them. I want to see a happy ending, but sometimes the past just likes to rear up and bite me in the ass when I least expect it.

Like right now, suddenly remembering a time Elsa stole me from the couch right after her shower. I can't even remember what we did—except that it wasn't each other. It hurts that I can't remember, but I also know it's a sign of healing, letting go of some of these things. Keeping some of them is good too; for solace in my darkest moments. And much as it might hurt them, I need to talk with both Tina and my daughter about this balancing act. Just in case.

Kristoff will say I'm worrying too much. I probably am. But she's my only daughter—your only daughter—and I want to protect her. But it's so much harder when I want her to see the world too, and everything in it. Damn. I really do need to check in with another parent. Soon.

This one isn't your fault, just for the record. I'm blaming the Reindeer King this time.


	37. Buildup

I'm looking back on my work today, and I've only managed seven welds. It's a complex thing though, a cross union, a T-junction, two 50 mm sight glasses, a racking valve, and three assorted RJT fittings. All purge welded on 50mm pipe—and that's the real reason I've only managed seven welds in a day. Purge welding, to a casual observer, might seem like a simple process, and for the most part it is. Getting in to access welds in complex structures like this, however, and the time it takes to complete such a weld with full penetration and no burn-through is where the time requirement multiplies. It's about an hour per weld as a ballpark. Audrey's a little faster, but set up on complex stuff still takes time, as does purging the pipework with argon.

This is another project for Naveen's guys, making some visual flow meters and drain valves to replace one that somehow got hit by a hoist on Monday. Kristoff has been out talking with Al about the year-end maintenance for that factory, and we have another guy lined up—whose name I forget—who wants a whole bunch of walkovers for his factory. For those, at least, we've got extensive drawings and plans, which will allows us to customise as needed to get the right stuff on site, on time. Depending on the complexity of access they need, it could still be as much as fifteen grand per walkway. I still remember a big one we did for Naveen when he got some new equipment in about a decade ago.

Getting off-track again, but it _is_ the end of the day. I grab my lunch bag and throw it in the van, heading back to turn everything off in the workshop. I look at the pipework strung up on the bench, but I can't shake the nagging sense of disappointment I have. I know it's good for purge welding—but I do so little of it, my mind normally tracks progress as if it were standard welds. I shake my head and lock the doors behind me. I swing myself into the passenger seat of the van, and Kristoff starts the engine.

"Something's bugging you." Right to the point.

"It's purge welding. You know what it's like."

He nods. "I do. And you can still do it miles better than I can."

"I just… uh, it's silly, and I know it. We both know it," I shake my head. "But it still bugs me."

"I know, feistypants, I know," he places a hand on mine as we wait in the driveway for a gap in the traffic. "It's little things."

I squeeze his hand, remembering a time we were talking about little things like this. "It's the big pipes tomorrow. That'll feel faster at least."

"If you really want, you can start cutting for this walkway, and Audrey can finish the welds."

I give it some thought, and really can't decide. "How about we decide tomorrow morning?"

"Sure," it's a bit non-committal, but he's concentrating on driving now.

By the time we actually make it home, it's about five, and Joan is on the couch, half-watching some cartoons, and half-doing her homework. She hardly even looks up as we walk in. As I walk past I see another half of her attention—quiet you, I know how to math—focused on her phone. And a flash of an image I don't actually want to see too clearly. I clear my throat loudly. She drops the phone and turns around, clearly surprised I'm there.

"Baby, I'm not judging, but if it that photo was what I think, don't keep it."

"Mom! You—" I can hear the righteous indignation mixed with no small amount of embarrassment in her voice.

I look away. "Legal reasons. You're both under eighteen. Hell, you're both under _six_ teen."

"And…"

"Joan, _think_ —do I really have to paint this picture for you?" I hold up a hand to silence her protest. "I'm trying to be 'wise, protective mom' here, not 'disapproving, overbearing mom'."

"That doesn… oh. Oh, shit." Incandescent doesn't begin to describe the shade of pink she just turned. And worried doesn't begin to describe what her eyebrows are now doing.

"Just send her a text," I'm slowly walking out of the room now. "Make sure you're both on the same page." I let out a heavy sigh. "And if you really think you have to, delete them afterward."

"Uh, mom…?"

"Be safe. In the eyes of the law. That's all I'm saying." I pause at the door to the dining room. "If you want to ask someone about it—because I'm not really up with the legality of this around young people, maybe talk to Lefou, or officer Erikson."

She frowns at me. "Should I?"

"This one's up to you. It's an adult decision _you_ should make."

"Maybe I'll just message Lefou with some hypotheticals."

"Well, while you 'maybe' do that, I'm going to be cooking dinner."

"What's tonight?"

"Steak. You need your strength for fencing."

"Mo-om," she stretches the word out so much. "Okay, yeah, steak is good."

* * *

It's late now—I'd call it very late, actually—but Joan is still up, and kinda charged, given she won their mini-tournament tonight. Nothing in it but bragging rights, and a couple of nasty scratches, but that's beside the point. She's calling them battle scars now. And because she's still up—and so am I—she's asked to hear more of your story. Of course I'm going to oblige.

Right after we get her calmed down a little.

Which is why we're in the bathroom, with her only wearing a vest, and me with some strip bandage being 'fussy, concerned mom' right about now. Joan isn't actually too bothered by this. The cuts need to be re-covered after her shower, and sometimes, secretly, I think, she does like being fussed over. Just a little bit. I give her a very gentle punch on the arm, away from the cuts.

"Okay princess badass, we're done here."

"Thanks mom," she's already walking out the door. "But you still owe me a story."

"I want my drink first," I'm packing up our little first aid kit. "You want something?"

"You having hot chocolate?"

"Yeah."

"I'll have one too then, thanks."

It's not long after, with both of us sitting on the couch, sipping hot chocolate. I turn the TV down, and outside I can hear a light pattering of rain. Not too different from another evening, so many years ago.

—∞—

It was late afternoon on Saturday, and I was just staring at the kitchen floor. Elsa had come up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I leant gently against her.

"I really should fix this."

"I know you are an engineer, Anniken, but you can do woodwork too?" She seemed quite surprised.

"Uhh… no. I meant more that maybe I should hire someone to fix it." I looked at the tide marks again, the sheer size of them. I felt it when my knees went weak, and I sagged against Elsa's side. She turned to me, concern writ large upon her face.

"Anna?" I was kneeling by then. She'd circled around in front of me, lifting my chin. "Are you okay?"

I wanted to say yes, but I could only shake my head. I was starting to wonder if therapy might be necessary. This was the second time in two weeks after all. Even if I had to get Elsa to _drag_ me there, I would go.

"I am thinking, Anniken, that this might be bothering you more than you want to tell me." I could see the hint of disapproval on her face.

"No," I shook my head, turning away. "It's not that. I kinda want to tell you, so maybe you can help me through it, but… I don't really know how."

"You told me once before."

"And you told me I might need to see a therapist." I looked around, feeling a little better with Elsa beside me. "I think you were right."

"So you will go?" she sounded skeptical—not that I could blame her.

"You might have to drag me, but yes." I stood, slowly, letting her help me up.

"Why would I have to drag you?" I saw the consternation on her face, the quizzical tilt of her head.

"Because I don't _want_ to go—but I think I _need_ to."

"You are very strange sometimes, Anniken," she pulled me into a quick hug. "But I like your strange."

* * *

I had tried arranging an appointment for Monday, thinking I might be able to take a half-day of sick leave to cover the time I'd need. No dice. The soonest appointment—at least from the website I checked—was on Wednesday. It hadn't occurred to me how much therapy was actually needed by people at that point. To this day, I still find it hard to understand. But, I resolved to go, told Elsa the time of my appointment, and then rang Kristoff to ask if he knew any good woodworkers.

Not personally, he told me, but there was a company he kept hearing about. Fix It Co. I rang the office and left a message. After that, Sunday—well, the evening at any rate—was mine to waste as I pleased. I wanted to do something for Elsa, given how supportive she was being—and also because I really just wanted to do something for her. Something intimate, just for us. Not sex though… not yet. I didn't think I was ready for it—but recently she had been less subtle about her wants and desires, which I found both refreshingly bold and slightly intimidating.

Of course, this being me, planning was not my strong suit. Dinner would probably be passé at this point. Talking about each other, sure, but we were doing that a lot—and we were pretty honest anyway. Okay, both of us had reasons for being guarded about certain things, but nothing huge. I wondered about dancing—maybe something she could teach me. The closeness too; that would certainly count as intimate. But that wasn't exactly what I wanted either. It was something deeper; more raw and human. In fact, it was something I wasn't quite sure what it was.

All this was part of my extended healing process from what Hans had done to me. At the time, of course, I didn't see it for what it was, or understand why I took such small steps in some places while making great strides elsewhere. I just wasn't very self-aware. It was that thought process—and the odd thoughts about Hans—that brought me to something he'd never done for me. A massage. It seemed to tick all the boxes for what I wanted, too. It would be intimate, and relaxing, and yes, it could be quite sexual. Or sensual. That was a better word to use.

It was over dinner that I suggested it.

"You want to give me a massage?" I could see the puzzlement behind her eyes. "But you are not a masseuse."

I rolled my eyes and smiled. "None of your previous girlfriends did this for you?"

Elsa shook her head. "No. Or perhaps it was more to begin…" she coughed softly. "Other things."

I stared at her for a moment, understanding slowly falling into place. And me being me, I just blurted it out. "You mean foreplay?"

—∞—

"Mom!" Joan thumped with a cushion. "I don't need to know that!"

"Don't try and tell me you're as prudish as she was," I grab the cushion Joan's using to wail on me. "But hey, we were having an honest discussion. She was always so reserved talking about sex, outside the bedroom at least."

"I—still—ugh…" I give Joan a moment to collect her thoughts. "It's just… I don't know… beyond weird and kinda—disgusting?—having this picture in my head of you and her… doing… that."

"Well how do you think I feel about picturing you and Tina?" Did her eyes get wide at that one.

"Touché." She really couldn't say anything else.

"Now, if you'll let me get back to the story where, unfortunately, you'll have to learn a little about your mothers' sex lives…"

—∞—

I had just mentioned foreplay, in dinner conversation, no less. Elsa had turned the brightest pink I had ever seen anyone turn, and she managed to choke out a single word. "What?"

"If I get that reaction just from mentioning that, if I talk about the other thing I feel like you'll faint."

"I did like how Sonia touched me." Elsa coughed softly, maybe hoping I wouldn't hear her whisper. "Even there." She blushed brighter as her whisper trailed off. "Especially there."

Now I had a problem, because my plans for a massage had never included 'there' as Elsa so vaguely put it. I didn't want this to be so strongly sexual. Elsa must have seen the confusion and worry on my face. She smiled brightly and looked me straight in the eyes.

"I would like _your_ massage, Anniken—not Sonia's. I am thinking you still do not feel ready."

I blinked. How had she known what was racing through my mind without me even being aware of it.

"But if you would like more, I will not stop you. I will not force you. What happens is up to you."

"I…" I just shook my head. Was she a mind-reader now? "I'm still not sure. I don't really know where I am in this relationship."

"And you take time figuring this out—but you must know how it is frustrating."

I nodded, blushing. "For me too. But I have my hands." I gave a little cough, and whispered the next part. "And toys."

She heard it quite clearly, blushing incandescently, but whispering perhaps the boldest thing I had ever heard from her. "Perhaps one day you would share."

It felt like my cheeks were on fire. I couldn't answer. I couldn't meet her eyes, and she couldn't meet mine. We were like a couple of shy schoolgirls, talking about our first time. More than that, it _would_ be my first time, whenever it happened. A much bigger—and somehow smaller—step than I wanted to admit. Because in that whisper I had heard a great deal of hope, and lust, and mischief. A whisper that seemed more like it should be mine than hers. A whisper that was at once liberating and terrifying in all it implied.

And then Elsa lightened the mood, smiling cheerfully at me. "We would have dessert first, of course?"

"Of course," I was up before her, and took our plates to the sink. We could wash up later. "You think you're more important than dessert?"

She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like: I could _be_ dessert. It was accompanied by a mock-hurt expression.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Just something silly about dessert."

The conversation over dessert was much less risqué, and I was honestly glad for the distraction. Mostly because I'd only looked up a couple of videos earlier, and those showed a massage more like Elsa had mentioned Sonia had delivered. I didn't want to do that. I wanted something quiet, and intimate, and quite frankly as far from sex as possible. Yes, I was an idiot. Thankfully Elsa hadn't noticed my growing distraction throughout dessert—but given the slight flush of colour in her cheeks, and the little smiles she kept inadvertently flashing me, I figured she had other things on her mind as well.

After dessert she half-dragged me up the stairs and into _her_ room. Not that this was uncommon, but I just thought that if I was the one giving the massage it should have been in my room. She flopped gracefully onto the bed, bouncing slightly, dragging me down with her. She must have seen my confusion earlier.

"My bed is more comfortable."

I took a chance and draped myself atop her, resting my head against her breast. "I think you're more comfortable."

She stroked my hair softly. "Anniken, should you tease me so?"

"I really shouldn't." I sat up slowly, still unsure how to start. I crossed my legs and cocked my head, trying to think. "Would you like to undress a little first?"

"Naked?" But she wasn't protesting—in fact, she seemed a little too excited.

"Well, shirtless at least. Maybe pants-less too."

She pulled the t-shirt she was wearing over her head, cursing when her hair got tangled in it. She threw the offending item quite impressively across the room and into the hall. I had to stop and look at her then. Properly. Not that I hadn't when we passed for showers and stuff, but this was… more. I saw the subtle trail of freckles from her decolletage to the top of her bra. I saw what must have been a very old scar on her left arm, a little way down from her shoulder. She said it was from a TB vaccination when she was a baby. I saw more pale freckles over that same shoulder, and the other one too. I saw her subtle, beautiful blush as she realised I was seeing her—ogling her, even—in this new light.

I saw a lithe, tight belly, and some quite well developed abs. I hadn't really appreciated how strong dancers need to be. She was thin, yes, but like me she was lean, and more muscular than I had thought for some time. Then she was teasing me, shuffling slowly out of her jeans, leaving them in a heap beside the bed. I moaned in frustration, because I was almost ready to be left in a heap beside her bed too. _Focus, Anna_. I had to snap myself out of it somehow. I was supposed to be doing something for her, not me.

Something to help her relax, feel more at peace, be more intimate.

—∞—

"And honestly, mom, I think that's quite enough detail right there."

I cast my mind back to what happened next, and what we really talked about during that massage. "I think you're right."

"Wait, you're actually agreeing with me?"

"Yup," I nod vigorously for her. "Because a lot of the following conversation was about sex. Or foreplay. Or, umm… something about not sharing the same room for an hour or so for both our safety."

"For both yo—eww, mom. Not again," and Joan just gives me this weird, disgusted look, and I can't really tell how much of it is an act. "I'll never get that picture out of my brain now."

"And you're too young to drink."

"Wine tastes nasty anyway," she shudders, moving a little further from me on the couch. "And you're really gonna leave the story hanging there?"

"Unless you'd rather be hearing a not-quite-sex scene starring your mothers, yes." I relented a moment later. "For now. Give me some time and I might be able to give you just the story—and some PG-13 action."

"Not helping."

I was laughing when a fresh pillow hit me at thirty miles an hour. I grabbed the nearest pillow from the couch, hearing an excited squeal as my intended target rolled off the back of the couch. Another pillow hit me square in the face.

"Oh, it's on now."


	38. Unveiled

Joan might not want to hear it, but I remember it very well—the massage I gave you that night, and the warning you gave me after. It's not my fault you were so into it. On second thought, it probably was. A lot. But you weren't the only one who needed to be alone for a while after that. Maybe I should go back to the start on this.

—∞—

I had promised Elsa a massage, and after dessert she had dragged me into her room rather than mine. I thought it was odd, but it was simply that her bed was more comfortable. Falling melodramatically on top of her, I quickly decided that she was the most comfortable thing in the room. She berated me for teasing her as I sat up, unsure how to start. Well, I had every right to be unsure. I'd never really given anyone a massage before, let alone my girlfriend. And frustrated though we both were at the lack of sex, I simply wasn't ready. I had baggage, and was still working through it.

It didn't mean I wasn't attracted to her though—oh no, my body had made its wants quite clearly known. Which was why I had to fight so hard to hold myself back. She did, too, but I think she liked some element of the frustration I was causing. And my occasional teasing. I asked her if she wanted to undress first.

"Naked?" it wasn't trepidation in her voice, but hopeful excitement.

"I think it'll be easier if you're shirtless. And pants-less," I looked away just a little, knowing I couldn't hide my blush. As always, humour was my defense. "I'll try not to freeze you with my hands."

"Anniken, I am the ice-queen here," she smiled at me, pulling her sweatshirt over her head. I heard muffled cursing when her customary braid somehow got tangled up in it. With a sharp gasp and a belated 'ow', the offending item was thrown clear of the room entirely. She certainly had a good arm on her.

I gave her a sly smile. "Hey, Elsa, if you have that much trouble with your shirt, maybe I should help with your jeans."

Our blushes matched now, hers fading faster than mine, and after she had unbuttoned her jeans I hooked my fingers into the waistband and slid them down her legs. Slowly. Teasingly. On a whim I kissed her thigh, and suddenly she was very quiet. I looked up, but her eyes were closed, and an odd smile crossed her lips. I pulled her jeans past her knees, and then, with a flourish, removed them completely and left them in a heap on the floor. Only then did she make a move, her hands under my shirt, seeking to unhook my bra.

"You want me naked too?" I was a little unsure of myself. At that time I didn't have a huge amount of body confidence.

"Is topless okay?" It was that bashful little smile that did it. "You are very nice to look at."

"Maybe I should look at you some more, miss Frostad," I gave her a sultry wink—at least, I thought it was sultry. She laughed.

"My beautiful Anniken—you promised much more than looking at me, remember?"

"I did… but it's just…"

"It is okay if you want to leave the clothes on. I think I understand." She gave me the most devilish wink. "But I am still imagining you with them off."

"Well, if you're going to put that much effort into it anyway," I laughed, relieved, feeling that maybe it was okay to be topless here. I couldn't resist another quip as I took off my shirt. "I can't let you get any of the details wrong, can I?"

Elsa sat up to unhook my bra, carefully lowering it to the floor beside her bed. In turn, I unhooked hers—which, to be fair, was rather harder to do on another person. She made a quip about offering me some practice another time, I just gave her a look and gently pushed her back down onto the bed. I gestured for her to roll over, and for a moment she wore the most beautiful and seductive pout I had ever seen. I shifted on the bed, straddling her, sitting on her backside and lifting her braid.

As my fingertips played with the end of her braid, Elsa turned carefully to speak with me. "You like to play with my hair?"

"It's so _fine_ ," my fingers tugged gently at the ribbon holding it together. "I wish my hair was so manageable."

"I am lying here, beneath you, naked, and you compliment my hair?" but she was giggling as she spoke. She turned a little more, pointing at something. "There's a brush on my nightstand."

I turned to look where she was pointing. It was an old looking brush, wood handled, and well loved by the look of it. I leaned over to pick it up, moving just a little so my breasts brushed against Elsa's back. I heard a quiet sigh beneath me. Putting the hairbrush down on the bed, I carefully untied the ribbon keeping her hair bound. It took time to tease those platinum strands out between my fingers. I heard another sigh.

"Elsa?"

"Yes, Anniken?"

"I know I promised you a massage… so… do you want…?"

"I do not mind if you play with my hair," her voice was so soft, mellow. "I think you will pamper me. It will mean more."

I smiled, even though she was no longer looking at me. "Challenge accepted. I'm gonna make you feel like some kind of spoiled princess."

"Please…" I could hear the desire in her plea.

With one hand I finger-combed some platinum locks, then ran the brush down through them, trying to avoid any knots. I had to admit she had a lot of hair. A lot. It seemed such a shame knowing she would lose it before too long. I hoped she wouldn't be too proud to wear a wig. I would love her anyway, but in the wider world… or maybe she could get away with a rakish bandanna, though that was more my style. I said nothing through all this, simply stretching out and gently brushing her hair. Lustrous, platinum hair. Natural, too, given the colour went all the way to the roots. I should have figured it out before then, given the lack of dyes in the bathroom, but it was honestly something I'd never really given a lot of thought.

As I ran the brush down her hair, tugging softly at the occasional tangle, I began to gather strands again, planning to braid it back up. I thought better of it, grabbing a hair-tie from her nightstand, gathering her hair into a simple ponytail. I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

"I'll do some make-up too, if you want."

She turned to face me, pulling me into a deeper kiss. "Later, maybe." She laughed. "Plus, I might smudge on the pillows."

"So, what next then?" I was lying half on top of her—maybe not entirely comfortable, but I'm pretty sure _she_ liked it. "Straight into the massage, your highness?"

"No," she laughed, surprising me with her deference. "A little foot rub first. I have been on my feet all day."

"Maybe I should wash them first," I wasn't sure if I was joking.

"They should not smell—too much," she rolled over beneath me, bringing us face to face. "But I admit I am liking the idea of being pampered. It would not be too much trouble?"

I gave it a moment's thought, then shook my head. "Of course not… but here?"

"You have a foot tub, or even a bucket?" I frowned. Of course I was going to have to improvise on a few things. But that didn't mean I was going to do anything less than my best.

"Give me a few minutes to get everything." I looked around her room, still quite bright. "Wait, should I get some candles too?"

"I do not think so," she reached out and turned on her reading lamp. "Just turn off the big light, this should be enough."

I did just that as I left. The sight of her in that low light, sprawled against the pillows practically naked. My breath caught, and I nearly tripped over myself in the hall. I shook my head and headed to the bathroom, gathering supplies. Towels. Soap. My odd little scrubbing brush. A loofah. One bucket to carry everything, and another to carry the water. I smiled, a new idea forming. Maybe her feet wouldn't be the only thing I washed before this massage—though she might complain if she had to change her sheets. More towels then.

Back in Elsa's room, and I held her left foot steady, gently working up a lather with the loofah and a little water. I had to fight to hold it steady, because it turned out she was actually quite ticklish. She was trying to keep it together, I knew, but she was also enjoying being… well… worshipped was probably not quite the right word, but it worked. Her feet were delicate—or at least they seemed that way. I could tell she took good care of herself, but still, I would have expected a dancer's feet to be far rougher, less refined. Her skin was flawless, too, and it made me kind of jealous. I splashed her foot with some water from the bucket to rinse off the soap, and then softly patted it dry with a towel.

I took her right foot, then began to scrub with my little brush, cleaning her sole and scrubbing any dirt from beneath her nails. I also managed to avoid getting kicked in the face from tickling her. Mostly because I'd decided lying across her legs would be safer. She had sat up shortly beforehand, and I felt fingertips against my spine, gently brushing across my back. I laughed under my breath. So she had problems with idle hands too. I shifted slightly so she wouldn't have to reach over so far.

"You do not mind?" her whisper was full of intrigue.

I shook my head. "When I said I'd give you a massage, I didn't say you couldn't touch me."

"It is implied with massage."

"We're adults, we can make our own rules. Now hold still, your foot still needs some cleaning."

I went back to my work, lathering up her foot with the loofah, wiping the lather around with my own slippery fingers. Splash, and dry. The water was still quite warm. I rolled off Elsa and knelt beside the bed, rinsing the loofah in the bucket. I wondered what to do next; how to keep the bed mostly dry. I had an extra fluffy oversized towel with me, and after getting her to sit up for a moment, had laid it under her. I grabbed the loofah and ran it up her legs, stopping mid-thigh. Half of me was tempted to get those briefs wet to see underneath. Half of me was of afraid of going too far if I did. Then there was the little part of me that said I hadn't earned anything like that kind of intimacy yet.

It didn't matter. With my bare hands I moved the lather closer and closer, the feeling of such smooth, supple skin filled me with a want I hadn't known I had. My fingers worked and gently kneaded the softer parts of that skin, drawing more than a contented sigh from Elsa. We were both lost to different worlds of sensation at that point. I had no qualms being only a giver this time. She had more than earned something like this, given how hard she was working. My hands returned to the bucket, and I knew I was going to get something too wet.

I shook my hands over the bucket, the water merely warm now, and followed the contours of Elsa's leg. With another towel, I patted her dry. I couldn't help noticing the scars down the side of that leg, even though they had healed so well. I knew they were my fault. A reminder of what I'd nearly done to her. A reminder of her darkest desire. I think I sniffled a little.

"Anna?" She lifted my chin with a finger, forcing me to look at her.

"Those scars… they're my fault."

"Yes, they are," she nodded, but there was no anger in her voice. "And I am glad I have them."

 _Wait, what?_ I must have looked like a rabbit in the headlights with that expression.

"Every day, they tell me that it was you." Well, of course it was me. Nobody else had managed to hit her with a motorbike. "That I am so lucky it was you, and not that car behind you. That it was you that cared. I remember how scared you were that you might have ruined my career when all I could think about was having survived—when I didn't want to. And it was you that kept coming back. Every time. You gave me a reason to live. You gave me hope. These scars remind me of that. I hated them at first, but now, what they represent… I can't help thinking of you, and all the good there is."

I just looked at her, tear tracks on my cheeks. I cried as she kissed me, so incongruous that she should comfort me while so naked—and yet, in that moment, it wasn't the lack of clothes that I noticed. It was the fact she had just openly and honestly told me what she thought about those scars. And about me.

I felt like the mood had changed somehow, and now wasn't the right time for any more. Until she spoke.

"It is okay if you want to go. I said I would not force you—but I would still like the touch of my friend. Even if we only lie here together, it will be enough."

"I… I guess I'm okay with that," I climbed up beside her on the bed, whisper-singing a few bars. "If I just lay here…"

"Would you lie with me… and just forget the world?" Elsa sang back to me, her voice soft and lilting.

My hand found hers in light of her reading lamp, and held on tight. I shuffled closer, our legs and shoulders pressed together. We kissed, softly, and again, passionately. Our hands roamed of their own accord. I got up slowly, straddling her again, sitting on her thighs. Our fingers were still laced together. I gave her a gentle look—I couldn't well give her a massage with our hands like that. She sighed, letting her hands play with my thighs. I started with her shoulders, pressing firmly, trying to figure out if there really was tension that needed working out.

I was no expert, but after a few minutes of gentle kneading I moved from her shoulders to her left arm. I felt tension there for sure, massaging up and down her upper her arm. Her elbow—how did you massage an elbow?—and down her wrist, playfully pinning her arm in the process. I tickled her palm and moved to her other arm, shifting slightly so she could reach more of me if she wanted. I felt hand on my butt almost at once. I gave her a dirty look and a happy smile. In this moment I was perfectly happy for her to lust after my body—my thoughts about hers weren't exactly pure either.

What my body wanted… what my heart wanted… what my mind wanted… in that moment it was her. It was Elsa. In all different ways, for all different things. Months into our relationship, and it felt like I was learning more about myself than about her. It was weird, but it felt right. Actually, all of it felt weird, and right. Especially where my hands were in that moment.

"Anna?"

I looked down, my eyes tracing the pale freckles on her décolletage down her chest and over the top of each breast. Towards my fingertips. I looked up, giving her a smile and a playful squeeze.

"If you keep doing this, I may ask you to massage… lower." She coughed softly and looked away. "I would very much like it if you would help…"

That stopped me. My mind had already managed to put two and two together with that implication. "I… umm…"

"It's… okay…" Elsa hands were balled into fists, and she was staring at me with dangerous intensity, tilting her head toward the door.

I figured that one out myself. I ducked out, closing the door behind me. I was fairly sure I didn't want to watch… yet. I turned, remembering the top and bra I'd left in there. My hand froze halfway to the handle. I couldn't. I padded back to my room, then closed the door. I didn't want to think about what was almost certainly quiet moaning coming from Elsa's room. My body did though, one hand under the waistband of my jeans.

—∞—

I've been dozing for several hours, according to the clock hanging on the wall there. Dozing, and remembering. There are parts of that I want to tell Joan—but I don't know how I can clean it up. Maybe just a very bare bones outline. Maybe just our speech—and I could have sworn we talked a lot more about what we wanted, unless that was the other time… It's a pleasant memory. More than pleasant, in fact. But I'm older now, and arguably wiser—hey, I know what you're thinking. Anyway, I have a husband too, and he cares, a lot.

And right now I'm feeling a pressing need for two things. One of them is to be held again, like we used to do. The other is for what usually came before. Kristoff's not you, but I'm pretty sure we can figure something out… after all, adults get to make up their own rules.


End file.
